


Cold Front

by Signsofchanges



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Human Trafficking, Near Death Experiences, Partners to Lovers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:04:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Signsofchanges/pseuds/Signsofchanges
Summary: You've been around the block a few times in the few short years you've served as a detective in Texas. You helped crack a major drug trafficking case last year, which earned you a few accolades and a seat on a flight to Phoenicia, NY. A nasty case with more missing bodies than dead ones leads you on a whirlwind investigation with partners new and old. There's trouble coming in with the cold  this winter, and you're going to need all the help you can get. (Written as a reader insert - Bucky hits chapter 6, I mean it when I say slow burn)





	1. Steamboat

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the slowest of burns and one hell of an adventure. There's a lot of build of your badassery before Bucky comes to town, so hold tight. Dedicated to the endless patience and brilliant ideas of my beta reader.

_ Shit. It’s cold. Why the hell is it cold? _

 

Living in the southwest certainly didn’t prepare you for the crisp, biting air a rare overnight frost had brought in on its back. 

 

You scuff your boots on the iced over cement of the sidewalk, beginning the walk to your car. You focus on not slipping and pulling the slightly dulled wool of your winter coat up and around your neck, tucking your chin down into the high collar. 

 

_ Ick.  _ It had grown musty from disuse. The metal of the keyring in your pocket proved distraction enough from the smell, as the sharp pin pricks of cold steel numbed the thumb you rubbed over the image of a bucking horse. A cowboy sat steady in the saddle, never having been thrown, and not planning on being bucked off anytime soon. 

 

It was an old keepsake from a friend in Wyoming.  _ Steamboat. _ The horse on the damn license plate. 

 

The metal and your fingers were now warm from the habitual rubbing and you flicked your thumb over to the car key, pulling it out of its cozy hiding spot as you rushed to unlock the doors. 

 

You scuff your boots again as the door unlatches, fingers already fumbling to coax heat from the knobs and vents on the dash. Once the well-loved older model Chevy is purring, you pry a folded slip of paper from your bag. 

 

ATX -----> S WF

 

Old school. A printed boarding pass for a flight you were going to be mind numbingly early for. Placing the ticket on the dash, you double check the contents of the leather bag. A planner, several notebooks from past cases, heavy sweaters (all three you owned), and a few other necessities. No one had ever accused you of being an overpacker. 

 

_ Warm.  _

 

The truck was plenty warm now. Settling the items safely back into place, you coax the four wheel drive up the hill and start the trek to the airport and your awaiting new life. 

* * *

 

A new position had opened up in a small New York police department. It wasn’t flashy, but they needed an investigator and your old boss had recommended you. You hadn’t been on the force more than three years, but the position was well earned with hard work and a little luck from a drug trafficking case that had cracked underneath your fingertips last year. It was a huge break for the department, let alone you. 

 

This new position in Phoenicia, NY was on par with your past experience. They had an open case they believed was linked to drug trafficking. A few people were missing, but they were mostly known transients and it wasn’t disastrous. Your sheriff was essentially passing your stir crazy self off to an old buddy of his as a favor. He needed an investigator; you needed a change of scenery. 

 

There were a few key things that flowed through your veins like icy mountain streams, behaviors that you could not shake:

 

  1. You were most definitely a better shot with a rifle than a handgun. Anchoring your weight into a solid shoulder was easier than trying to quell a nervous shake of the hands. 
  2. A badge hadn’t improved your habit of “california rolling” through stop signs
  3. You were a natural leader and communicator. You may not be as experienced as others, but you gave a damn about people and they would listen when you talked.



 

Which was why you said yes to the position when the chief of police’s old academy buddy had called. You weren’t the fastest or the strongest, but you were steadfast, solid, and realistic. You reminded yourself of this as the dusty, frosted flat lands gave way to rolling hills of scrubby mountain cedar trees. 

 

Thirty minutes top to the gate.

 

You said yes to the job. The hope that you had said yes to making a difference hung in your subconscious like unripe fruit.

 

_ Waiting. _

* * *

 

The rest of the drive was uneventful. The static-shrouded alt rock station reverberated against the window panes of the truck until the ignition was shut off. You thought briefly of turning the volume down so as not to startle the next driver who cranked the engine. You decided against it. Mostly because it was cold and you didn’t feel like exposing your fingers to the outside world again after locking the car.

 

You started the brief walk across the pavement to the flight check in, tucking your keys into your bag as you went. The decision had been made to leave the truck at a long term parking lot for the first few months. If all worked out, you would return in the spring to drive it up to New York. 

 

Scuffing your boots against the thin ice of a rare Texas winter once more, you cross into the warmth and buzz of the small airport. You love airports. The faint smell of coffee, the happy reunions, the weary faces of travelers, they all spoke to you soul. Which had a lot of time to be spoken to as well. Even after security and an awfully thorough pat down, there was still an hour left until boarding call. 

 

Letting the enormity of your departure settle like a heavy blanket over you, you unbuttoned the faded wool coat to reveal a thin gray t-shirt and well worn jeans. Your knees popped as you outstretched your legs and crossed them at the ankles in front of you. 

 

_ It was warm.  _

 

You weren’t sure if you were ready to face the winter yet.


	2. Supply and Demand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Phoenicia. A new partner, a new chief, and a new case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dense. Have faith, Bucky is coming, but I wanted to create a very purposeful life and story for you as the reader first. It's going to be a wild ride and a slow burn folks.

The flight was turbulent.

 

“We’re fighting a cold front flying up here. Always makes the flight a little shaky. No worries ma’am, we’ll get there; it may just take a little longer,” the pretty redheaded flight attendant explained to the anxious mother seated next to you.

 

Her response came in a quiet whisper, sharp with a midwestern accent, “Well, if you’re sure.”

 

Her young child remained unphased, careening her neck to look out the window past you. You could appreciate the curiosity. Though she was verging on too close, you didn’t say a word. How many people had you pushed aside to get a lay of the land?

* * *

  
You had secretly hoped a taxi would pick you up. No such luck. It was a quick dip into cold air and then into the warm interior of a police car. The heel of your boot clipped the door frame as you folded your legs in.

 

“I can’t believe your flight actually made it on time. That almost never happens around here,” the young deputy sitting in the driver seat said while he splayed his hands across the vents of the dash as the two of you settled in. He extended his hand to you before he continued.

 

 “Deputy Owen Price. Welcome to Phoenicia, Detective Bex.”

 

 You shook his hand, pleased to find it was solid.

 

“Glad to be here, Deputy Price,” you replied as you released his hand and noticed the scribbled address on the back of it. ”Where are we headed?”

 

You cocked an eyebrow at the smudged words and he chuckled, “Your new place. They gave me the address in a hurry before I left and I didn’t want to forget.”

 

You thought briefly of the smartphones you both carried, and the police radio hooked into the car. He could have gotten it in plenty of other ways, and yet here he was with potentially classified information scrawled in ink pen on his skin.

 

Self-reliant, you could get behind that.

* * *

 

Your new home turned out to be about twenty minutes outside of town. It was set off the road with beautiful views of the mountains and crisp white frost in the distance.

 

“This place is older; it used to belong to the old chief of police. There was no one left to inherit the place when he died so it sort of became the property of our department,” Owen explained as he pushed the gear stick into park and pulled pressure from the brake pedal as he leaned to exit the car.

 

Standing next to him, surveying the house, you took note that he wasn’t much taller than you, but solidly built and could probably easily outrun you if he wanted to.

 

Owen was right, the place was older, but beautiful nonetheless. It boasted two bedrooms and two baths, with sturdy wooden door frames between each room. This was built way before the time of open floor plans, and the result was a bit of a maze. The kitchen was nice enough, and the master bedroom was already made up with fluffed comforters and fresh linens. You wondered if the small police department had called a cleaner, or handled it themselves, and were grateful either way.

 

You hoisted your bag unto the bed and slipped a notebook and your gun and holster from it. Strapping the leather tight across your hips, you clipped a magazine into the handgun with the palm of your hand and switched the safety on, recalling the awfully thorough pat down by TSA.

 

_“I’m a cop, I told you this already,” you had said while they reviewed your paperwork when you dropped your luggage off with the gate agent._

 

They had side eyed you and insisted on a full cavity search.

 

Regardless, you and your sidearm had made it to New York and to your new partner Owen Price. From what you understood, he was one of maybe a dozen law enforcement officials around town.

 

He scuffed his shoes on the porch and breathed a hot cloud of air into the chilly evening as you turned to lock the door with the newly minted keys he had handed you.

 

“We’ll head down to the station so we can get you introduced to everyone. Chief Eaton will give us the debriefing on our case,” Owen spoke with his chin tucked down to shield his face from the wind during the brief walk to the car.

 

“How much do you know about this case already? Are you the only one currently assigned to it?” Your questions seemed louder than normal as you unlatched the new squad car’s door and slipped inside the quiet, well-insulated interior. No static crackled through the radio, and the heat didn’t need coaxing.

 

“Actually, this hasn’t even been made an official case. The pieces started to fall together a couple of weeks ago, but we were waiting until we had a proper detective to actually open it.”

 

He must have glanced and seen the disbelief, or was it anger? You understood a smaller department had to commit a lot of time to keep a town running, which didn’t lend itself easily to tackling a potential drug trafficking ring.  You shouldn’t feel angry about it, and you try not to let it show. Owen seems at least partially aligned with this thought process.

 

“Hey, give us a little credit. We’ve all been working on smaller aspects of the puzzle, various incidents, and call-ins. I’ve pulled together as much information as we have. Rest assured, we haven’t been sleeping on it,” he spoke firmly, seeming more determined than defensive.

 

“I’m glad there’s been a few different eyes on it, the wider the perspective when we start, the easier it’ll be to narrow down our options,” your response is slightly muffled by the roll of gravel under tires. Owen nods thoughtfully, almost rhythmically with the click of the blinker as the car eases onto the main highway and into town. He was not a California roller.

* * *

 

The drive into town was all rolling hills and tall trees against icy blue skies. You had pressed the back of your hand to the window at one point and made a mental note to order gloves.

 

“See, the drive isn’t that bad. We’ve got a squad car set aside for you too, it’s not the flashiest but it’s reliable,” he was preemptively answering as many questions as possible.

 

“Won’t be problem Owen. You should see my truck back in Texas, I’m pretty sure the heater is a figment of my imagination,” you both laughed and the sound rung in the station as you each swung a door open. The scuff of boots, the ring of laughter, and the panicked whispers of an emergency operator are the sounds you will remember from your first day in the Phoenicia police station.

 

“Miss, please calm down. Miss, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” There was an older woman operating the call board, and her silver hair shone like frost against the singular blinking red light. A pen was tight in her grasp, and the phone was cradled between her neck and shoulder. You waved and mouthed hello as you passed by, she nodded in acknowledgment and went back to scribbling furiously as the panicked voice on the other end tried to convey any kind of a story.  

 

The whole station was steeped in natural light. Large windows and chestnut colored wood.It had just begun to snow outside, light flurries coming in like fighter pilots on the harsh wind. A thrill ran down your spine, the same every time you saw snow.  It wasn’t terribly secure, but it was beautiful.

 

“Ah! Detective Bex! So good to finally meet you,” a large man striding across the room broke you from your reverie as he greets you with a firm handshake. You return the gesture with equal enthusiasm.

 

“You must be Chief Eaton. It’s a pleasure, sir.”

 

“We’re glad you’re here. I can’t thank you enough for coming up, I know it must be quite the change,” he motions for you and Owen to follow him from the reception area through a small hallway. A few long strides and he opened a glass paneled, wood framed office door. It was so much like a detective noir film you couldn’t help but chuckle. Owen cocked an eyebrow over his shoulder at the noise but slipped a small smile when he saw the bright look on your face.

 

The office was large. Huge windows, a formidable desk, and a rolling whiteboard filled the space in between stacks of archive and evidence boxes. Some were a gleaming white, others a little yellow, and a few old brown cardboard ones, which appear to have been left out in the rain at some point.

 

“This office is for you and Deputy Price. We’ve pulled together all of the information and cases we think could tie into or shed some light on the drug trade here,” Eaton gestures to the boxes all around the room, then places a slim manila folder on the desk. He taps it twice.

 

“So, what kind of things are you seeing? New strains of drugs you’ve already had issues with? New drugs altogether? Or some new source you suspect?” Admittedly, the information given to you before your arrival was slim, and you had chalked it up to there not being much to go on. 

 

“No, none of that,” Owen scratched the back of his neck as he spoke.

 

“Then what?” You were becoming impatient, reaching past Eaton to flip open the file on the desk.

 

“Detective Bex, we needed you up here because our drug trafficking has manifested in a strange way. These products simply stopped showing up on the streets, during arrests, even undercover OPs,” Eaton seemed exhausted talking about it, his broad hand rubbing down the length of his face. Your eyes grew wide looking at the page in the folder, looking up to meet Owen’s anxious face as you handed over the paper.

 

It was a small spreadsheet of arrests in the county. Drug-related offenses had dropped from around 50 last month of dealers, users, and producers, to a whopping two arrests this month. Both misdemeanors. Beneath the small chart was a newspaper clipping and a coroner’s report.

 

_Overdose Epidemic - The Ghost Killer_

 

The report listed 10 overdoses in the past few weeks. A few a month, if that, in a town this size wouldn’t alarm you. People mess with doses, kids fool around with the wrong things, things happen. It’s almost inevitable. But the math didn’t add up here if this many people were dying, where were the drugs?

 

“Chief, is there a coffee maker around here? Deputy Price and I are about to have a long night.” Eaton nods and before you can make a start for the door, he waves for you to stay and leaves to start a pot. You liked the dynamics here already, different ranks, but all running the same race. You shrug off your coat, it was suddenly uncomfortably warm. Owen follows suit and begins opening the lids of boxes, waiting to pull anything until you speak. He stands half bent, arms braced against the heavy desk.

 

“Riddle me this Owen. Why would supply leave its demand?” Walking over to the whiteboard, you tape the newspaper article to the center of the board, “And who’s stepped up to meet it?”

 

“Maybe there’s stockpiles somewhere? That could explain how people are dying like this, maybe there are clubs? Underground shit?” Owen had begun a slow lap around the parameters, rapping knuckles on glass as he goes.

 

“Maybe,” you think back to your lucky break last year. You had caught a few major players hosting a series of what you deemed underground “Russian Roulette” parties. Distributors had put dealers up to challenge, bring a pretty girl to a party of 12 or so and drug her up. Whoever’s victim survived the longest without overdosing won a bigger cut of the supply. The general public lived with blinders, slightly paranoid and a lot scared after the bodies showed up. Russian Roulette brought the whole thing down eventually.

 

You shivered involuntarily.

 

“Cold?” Eaton asked as he passed you a steaming cup of coffee, with a little cream you noted.

 

“I would be lying if I said I was used to this kind of weather,” sweeping your free hand across the room at the wall of windows.

 

_Hot._

 

Your fingertips burned as you wrapped your hands around the warmth of the mug, pulling your shoulders into yourself briefly before loosening your back with a crack. The dull thud of three mugs being placed on solid wood followed suit.

 

“Fewer people affected in more serious ways. Concentrated supply, possibly just personal stockpiles. Could be a few dealers left here and there, or these people are victims of something else,” both you and Owen have approached the board with markers, “My big concern is that there’s a split between buyer and consumer, regardless of the legality of a product that is a hard bond to break.” _Supply_ and _Demand_ were now scrawled on the board. Slowly, files are pulled and Owen begins listing known dealers under _Supply_ and known users under _Demand._ Where were these people? You would have to pull them for questioning, the overdose victims families too. You’re snapped from your train of thought when Chief Eaton drops a file on the desk. Owen turns sharply and your chin jolts up.

 

“What if they eloped? What if they're both gone?” Eaton’s brow furrows as he speaks. Your coffee has gone cold.


	3. Cup of Joe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective, the deputy, and the hobo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this is a bucky barnes/reader story, he's coming as fast as I can make this go without skimping. It's dense AF, but you'll be rewarded, I promise!

Scalding water, steamy air, and the feel of your own nails running down your scalp accompanied your silent _thank you_ to the old house for having a spacious shower and water heater.

 

It had been a long night.

 

After three pots of coffee and 6 hours of midnight oil, you had stumbled in through the darkened doorway of your new home. Not even bothering to flip the light switch as tired feet abandoned boots, heavy hands peeled off jackets, and heavy thoughts made the darkness feel _dense._ You had considered simply collapsing on the couch and passing out, but figured a shower might shake some of the stress from your muscles.

 

You absentmindedly lathered your hair and body, noting the scent of peaches that came rolling off the soapy bubbles. Owen had spent the night digging through files, passing off whatever seemed even remotely important to you. Missing persons, drug busts, even a few auto theft cases. Anything that could explain who went missing, how they did, and why. Eaton had sat down with a cup of coffee and started making calls, he was at it for three hours before he was called off to handle an attempted robbery on the main square. You had found yourself in front of the whiteboard, scribbling,scrawling, and taping things together. Hoping it would form a readable map. At least a semblance of a path from Point A to Point B. There were a lot of unknowns though, and even when you thought you saw an answer, it turned out to be as fleeting as the steam off the coffee the chief handed you at irregular intervals between calls.

 

Owen and you and called a timeout. Bleary eyed and aggravated, you had driven to your new home, stepped out into the cold night, and watched the freezing air rise to fight your warm breath. You had screamed just to watch the battle continue.

 

You felt better after a shower and an exhausted sleep slipped easily into bed with you as you flicked the lights off.

 

* * *

 

“Who’s this?” You glance up from the paperwork in front of you as Owen enters the office holding a disheveled looking man by the upper arm.  

 

“This is Joe,” Owen looks almost sheepish, Joe has a spark of something in his eye, “he’s the local bum.”

 

“Fuckin’ rude, officer. No need to go tellin’ her that,” Joe feigned being hurt as you shake hands. You cock an eyebrow at the both of them, impatiently shuffling the paperwork you were previously studying.

 

“What can I do for you, Joe?”

 

“Not s’much you can do for me, but my buddy could use some help,” he says as a cup of coffee is passed into his hands by your partner. “He’s been missin’ for maybe coming up on three weeks now.” A long draw from the mug and a cough follow.

 

“I’m sorry to hear that. What can you tell me about him?”

 

You can’t help thinking this is a waste of time. You were a cop though, and the movements came easy. At the very least, it would be a brief distraction from the bigger fish on your plate.

 

“Tall, skinny, scraggly- haired,” he dunked a finger in his coffee and sucked it clean, “name is Perry.”

 

You nodded along slowly, jotting down the details. Owen cleared his throat.

 

“Perry is a known crack dealer,” the deputy steps forward to join the small circle Joe and you had created near the desk. ”His girlfriend, June, was reported missing by her mom a few weeks ago.”

 

Your eyes snap to his.

 

“Well fuck,” Joe curses.His eyes are wide, his free hand going to scratch the back of his neck as he sits his mug next to yours on the desk, “I need to make a change to that report you’re writin’.”

 

The bubble of hope in your stomach threatens to burst out of your chest as you nod. _This could be the break._  

 

“I’ve got half a mind to think he’s gone and took that girl to the big city. He was always saying something about expandin’ business,” Joe says and gestures for you to begin writing again. “He and that pretty little girl of his never had much of anything here, always usin’ faster than he could make.”

 

“Joe, do you know any other dealers in town?” The anxiety crackled in the room as you spoke.

 

“Normally, I would say ‘naw,miss,i’ve never even heard of drugs’ but lemme tell you,” the spark is back in his eye, frustration, “I haven’t seen hide nor tail of any of those motherfuckers and it’s driving me _bananas.”_

 

“Us too, Joe. Us too,” you sympathize. You’re both relieved and terrified. You could see the beginnings of an answer, but that answer may very well be out of your jurisdiction.

 

Joe raps on the window from outside as he exits the precinct with a wave and a fresh mug of coffee. Owen is trailing after, furiously scribbling information down as Joe chatters.

 

“We have to go to New York,” you decide, voice steady as you lean against the desk and gesture towards the board in front of you. “This may make more sense in that context. We don’t have jurisdiction but we do have a possible kidnapping which is enough to get us over there.”

 

“So, you’re trusting a hobo?”

 

“Hey, he’s your hobo. I’ll go talk to Eaton.”

* * *

 

“I hate to say it, guys,” Eaton was sitting at his desk with feet propped up and the missing person’s report laid across his lap, “and I don’t want to send you,” his boots hit the floor as he moved to stand, “but I agree.”

 

Chief Eaton couldn’t have been older than 45, the thin silver hairs just beginning to streak through his dark beard, but he looked every bit the part of an old sheriff in that moment. Worn down, from the case and the stress of being a small department, from the new detective threatening to take away his best deputy on what could be a wild goose chase. He didn’t think it was possible to run both too hot and freezing cold at once, but here he was. The thrill of  cracking a case always got his blood pumping, but anxiety of the unknown in a city he had no power in had him running cold. Bex and Price share furtive glances. Both were nervous, but Raina still exuded calm confidence and Owen’s fiery determination still flickered like a stubborn candle.

 

“I’ll give you 48 hours from the time you step foot on that godforsaken concrete,” he calculated how long he could spare Price as he spoke, “then you’re to get your asses back here with as much intel as you can get your hands on.”

 

“Yes sir,” Bex spoke for the both of them, Price already turning on his heels to leave, “we’ll start out in the morning from my place. It’ll save us half an hour.”

 

Eaton nodded, she was nothing if not a planner. She came to take the files on Perry and June from his hands with an appreciative smile and made to follow Price into the hallway, but halted at the door, bracing her arm on the frame as she turned on a dime.

 

“Chief,” Price looked back expectantly at the two of them as Bex spoke, “Permission to bring Joe?”

 

“The train hopper?” Bex looked mildly confused, but slipped into a small smile of amusement.

 

“He seems to be a lot of things, but yes, he’s our break and might be the best shot we have at finding this guy,” she shook the papers in her hand once to signify Perry. Eaton didn’t really have an argument.

 

“Sure, that’s fine, clean him up first though,” Eaton chuckled as Owen’s exasperated face pulled Raina from the office, “the three of you are representing Phoenicia!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Concerns? Hit me.


	4. Weatherman

The weather had taken a decidedly bad turn.

 

You could hear the howling of the wind accompanied by the taps of ice on glass window panes. ‘A wintry mix’ the weatherman had declared, but you knew enough to guess the roads would be iced in the morning if salt wasn’t dumped soon.

 

 _Not my department._ The thought hung on the fringes. Looking out the windows from your place standing in the old kitchen, you could see the first fat flakes of snowfall racing sheets of sleet to the ground.

 

A bowl of cake mix sat on the counter as you worked in oil and eggs with a wooden spoon. The repeated stirring was soothing. The warmth from the preheating oven penetrated the sweatshirt on your back, and the heat from the fireplace in the living room was slowly easing winter’s grip on the place.

 

Joe sat crouched by the fire, prodding the last log to catch flame.

 

After Eaton had you the okay to bring him along to New York, you had gone in search of the homeless man. Admittedly, it was a brief search. He had been perched on the stoop of the precinct, empty coffee mug still in hand.

* * *

 

_“Hey, Joe,” you said as your knees popped along with your voice, crouching to perch next to him on the stairs._

 

_He greeted you with a wicked grin, “Howdy, Officer.”_

 

_“Thanks for coming in today,” you continued, shifting to pour half the hot coffee in your cup into his mug. “You just may have helped us move a bigger case along.”_

 

_“Anything to help the cause,” a nod and a raised mug followed. “I suppose you need something else if you’re sitting out here with me though.”_

 

_Heat rose to your cheeks, a flash of guilt runs down. Could you really not do this on your own? Shaking your head, you thought of what Owen would say about using all the resources available. Joe was a resource, right?_

 

_“Yeah, actually,” you pushed a hand to the concrete step, standing up,”I was wondering if you would come to New York with Deputy Price and me.”_

 

_“That desperate to find Perry?”_

 

_“Yep,” A hopeful hand stretches down to help the man up as you spoke._

 

_He took it._

 

_“Well hell, why not? I could use an adventure.”_

* * *

 

Joe stood in your new home’s living room now, freshly showered and donning a pair of jeans with a dark blue button up you had scavenged from a closet. The sleeves had been cuffed by the previous owner and remained so on the new one. You had convinced Price to stay the night as well. It would be easier for you all to leave from here in the borrowed squad car, featuring four-wheel drive, a new radio, and snow tires. Plus, the idea of spending your first night in a new place alone sat sour in your throat. As if sensing your nervousness, Owen had promised to bring pizza on his way over.

 

In response, Joe insisted on a team bonding meal.

 

“Can you cook?”

 

“Not really, but I make a mean mulled wine,” Joe said as he waggled his eyebrows, stirring up the sound of sloshing wine in a large pot and the clank of potentially stale cinnamon sticks. The pot still sat bubbling away on the stove top and you had to be careful not to disturb it, placing the sheet pan full of cake batter in the oven. The meal was a weird combo, but so was the team and you were grateful to be eating a proper meal regardless.

 

Twenty minutes later, as if on cue, the lock of the front door began to tumble once you pulled the golden cake from the oven. A gust of cool air hit your jaw and the firm sound of metal on metal of the oven closing was met with the loud bang of the front door. Both Joe’s and your head shot up.

 

Owen stood in the doorway, carried in by gusts of snow, balancing pizza boxes in one hand, pulling the door back with the other. A sheepish grin graced his face.

 

“Sorry, the wind took it from me,” Joe moved to take the pizzas from him so he could shoulder the door closed against the cold. Owen turned the lock in place, a stalwart guard in the old wooden frame. The world around the metal tumblers would collapse before it so much as budged. _Ironic._ You were starting to feel like that. Steadfast in the slowly collapsing safety net of a small town.

“No worries, this house doesn’t seem too keen on keeping the cold at bay anyways,” you say as a whisk settles in your hands, frothing powdered sugar and water together. “We should eat before it takes the food too.”

 

“The lady’s speakin’ my language now! How about you deputy Price?” The chuckle from Joe is hushed over by the clink of mugs.  The moment your steady hands finished pouring glaze over the dessert, a healthy serving of hot wine is pressed to replace the whisk. The smell alone is intoxicating and you allow yourself to close your eyes, settling into a chair at the wooden kitchen table. The boys are already seated, working on their first slices of steaming pizza, comfortable chatter filling the room.

 

“Anyways, Shelia left me while I was overseas, so I just never went home. Didn’t know if my stuff was even gonna be there, didn’t bother me none not knowin’. Bothered me a lot that she never came lookin’ for me though,” Joe recounted while he shook his head, eyes downcast but not teary. Like it was a joke that had gotten too old. Poignant in theory, falling flat in reality. You sat quietly observing. Neither man paid you any mind while you munched on the thin crust. Owen looked like he took a sucker punch to the gut.

 

“Joe,” Owen rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I thought you were an addict or something. I didn’t even think to ask.” Shame radiated off the deputy, followed quickly by realization. “ I never had to, never had to arrest you for anything. Do you even have a record?”

 

“Nope. Clean as a whistle,” Joe said proudly while calloused hands raised his nearly empty mug, and you could help but laugh with him. “To the unlucky bastards like me, and the true blue bastards we’re about to hunt down!”

 

Laughter and long swings of the wine follow. Many hours and slices of cake later, a comfortable bond cements itself.

 

* * *

 

“You look way too happy,” a bleary-eyed Owen said as he stretched, handing a thermos of fresh coffee over. ”Joe is already outside. Been up since five.” You nod in acknowledgment, choosing to forgo the nagging feeling of not having known that. You hadn’t even heard the door unlatch.

 

Not much time to dwell. Your partner had slung his bag over his shoulder and opened the door to a damn winter wonderland of snow and ice. You didn’t much miss Texas, but the sight sent a wave of homesickness for the strong sun through your bloodstream. Stepping out into what is surely zero degree weather, you take a moment to enjoy the scene. Crisp, perfect, even, except for where the boys had trudged through the snow.

 

“Cold front’s here!” Joe’s smile and laugh from an open door of the car pulls you down the steps and into the snow.

  
_Fuck._ Why’d it have to be so cold?


	5. Saint Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you love this as much as I do.

_“Raina. Raina! Come on girl, we are gonna be hella late!_ ” _Phoenix was laughing, pounding on your dorm door. “Sam is going to be there tonight and damn if I don’t climb him like a tree this dress will have been a waste!”_

 

_You can’t help but laugh as well, flinging open the door to reveal your best friend. She was stunning. Five foot six, even in four inch heels, with wild golden curls and red lips. The short red bandage dress left little to the imagination, her skin as dark as midnight and nearly begging to be kissed._

 

_“Damn Phoenix. Sam’s a lucky man,” you compliment as you turn to lock the door behind you, pulling the gold sequin dress down over your ass as you did so. ”And if he doesn’t take you up on that offer, I will.” You throw an exaggerated wink at her, only for it to get caught in her smile and fit of giggles._

 

_“You are the worst, Raina!” her playful jab only makes you both laugh harder as you board an elevator to head to the lobby. It was an easy friendship and every night spent in each other’s company was sure to be a good one. You were much taller in your heels than she was and she noted this as you spun for her inspection while you were waiting for Siena to pick you up in front of the dorms._

 

_“Honey, you’re a damn gilded Amazon. Who have you got your eye on tonight?”_

 

_“We’ll see where the night takes us, but I did hear rumors of an exchange student from Spain. Santiago, I think?” You smirk, yeah, that was the name of the handsome new guy in chemistry. “I can’t help but love an accent.”_

 

_“Yes, girl, yes! We’re about to take this town on!”_

 

_It had been a good night. Plenty of booze, dancing, and kissing. There had been a nagging growing in the back of your mind the whole time though. Nothing to set off any alarms, more like someone had left a book out of place in a library and the librarian had missed it on their way out. Forgotten._

* * *

  


The few hours flew by with the passing treescape. Snow dusted branches, a swirling ballet ghosting across the glass. Joe snoozed, soft snores swallowed by the cushioned seats in the back, his cheek pressed to the glass, mouth ajar. You can’t help but marvel at his ability to sleep right now. The anxiety of the road ahead felt like a knife in your gut. No room to complain though, a level of masochism came with the job.

 

The last dredges of the trip you spent filling in on your suspicions. Russian Roulette all over again. He sat in stunned silence, slowly processing the information.

 

“I hate that that makes sense.” Owen is 27, your senior by three years, but at this moment you both feel old, feel tired, feel the knife of anxiety twisting deeper. You hum your agreement. “So where did you crack the case last time?”

 

“Night club, crazy place, had a secret tunnel system in the walls. No one even said anything about it until a new barback started.”

 

“What happened?” white knuckles encase the steering wheel.

 

“He called in a body.” Silence between the two of you, the quiet terror which bonds all law enforcement together. Shuffling comes from the back seat though.

 

“I know a place like that. Over in Harlem. Sign says Saint Sebastian, but everyone I’ve ever know calls it the disappearin’ act.”

 

* * *

 

The journey ended at the front door of a precinct in Brooklyn. Historic, but tired, seeming to sag under its own weight, or maybe the weight of the burdens its occupants carry.

 

You stretch, pulling a bent arm over your head and down across your back, listening to the series of pops. Owen rolls his shoulders backwards, releasing a sounds not unlike the tumbling of stones.

 

It is worth noting, that your backs are turned on the doors. You had arrived about an hour ago and plead your case to have some power in the jurisdiction, some help, but walked away alone. The New York cops had hallows under their eyes and a saddened look as they turned you away. Not because they didn’t want to help, but because they were already stretched as thin as the skin over their sockets.

 

You decide to call into the Phoenicia switchboard while you contemplated the next move, letting Debra know your feet had touched concrete. Eaton sent a text almost immediately.

 

  1. **_Be careful._**



 

Descending into the street, you spare a glance back at the precinct and decide it’s the burdens dragging the structure downwards and into itself. You don’t begrudge them or it.

“Bex,” Owen’s voice cuts your contemplation short, his hand on your shoulder brings the world back to focus,”What do we do now?” For as capable as you two were as deputy and detective, NYC wasn’t Phoenicia, and it certainly wasn’t Texas. You don’t have an immediate answer. The knife twists slowly, ever deeper. You feel lost and anxious.

 

“Detective! Owen!” Joe’s cheery voice beams around the corner of the alley he joins you from. He had left you to make your case to the local police force. The reunion brings four cups of coffee in paper cups and a newcomer, a short stocky man with coal black eyes. Apparently, Joe had plead his case to the locals as well.

 

“A cup of Joe for everyone,” his calloused hands pass over the liquid gold, a chuckle accompanying the joke, “and a crack in the wall for my favorite small town heroes.” You and Owen share skeptical looks.

 

“This is Maurice, he’s a train hopper, says he met a guy who looked a lot like Shaggy and pretty doped up redhead.” The knife begins to pull with the words, following the magnetized thrill of hope. You nod, outreaching to shake Maurice’s hand.

 

“Detective Raina Bex and this is my partner, Deputy Owen Price,” He smiles in return, he has the same warm grin as Joe. “We could really use your help, any information you can give us is worth its weight in gold.” The cold air envelopes your words in white swirls.

 

“Well lucky for you, Joe and I go way back,” Maurice throws his arm over Phoenica’s crown jewel of a hobo, “and all I want is lunch.”

 

You make your way to a surprisingly good lunch at a greasy spoon diner. Everyone opts for cuban sandwiches and pepsi, except for you, you can’t stomach the stuff. Coke was the end all be all of soda as far as you were concerned, though the boys poked fun. Halfway into his sandwich Maurice starts talking. He met Joe at a shelter maybe four years back, he met this barback at the same shelter two years back, and he had met your blissed out couple a week ago.

 

“Where did you say they were again? As much description as you can give us.” Owen is taking notes with one hand, eating with the other, as you ask the questions.

 

“They’ve been hanging around Saint Sebastian's for a few nights now, on and off, I followed them one time,” Maurice chews thoughtfully, “thought I could pick their pockets on the street. They ended up a hotel way nicer than anything I thought they could afford by the looks of them. I regret not fleecing them, they paid the guy at the front desk with a fat stack of cash.”

 

“Owen, how much money are dealers making in Phoenicia?”

 

“Not that much,” he takes a gulp of soda, “must have gotten it somewhere else.”

 

“Okay. Well, we won’t know until we talk to them. Maurice, are they still at the club every night?”

 

“Howie said they hang around the back door with a few others, sometimes get wasted with them, but he says they seem like they’re waiting for something. Real antsy.”

 

“Alright. Owen, Joe, we’re going tonight. We’ll have to clean up, we want front of the line access. The longer we’re there the more likely we’ll scare them off. Let me take the lead though.”

 

“Why? That seems dangerous - “ Owen is cut off by Joe.

 

“Because she’s got legs for days and our precious Perry won’t recognize her as a cop.” Maurice and Joe laugh loudly as you shrug in agreement. Owen goes beet red.

* * *

  


“Alright guys, Maurice said there’s three areas to this place,” You adjust the short skirt of a brand new red dress, careful not to pull the neckline any lower, “Owen you take the main dance floor, Joe take the rooftop bar, and I’ll take the back lounge.” Your team had cleaned up fairly well in new duds, and with the right words and cleavage, had easily gotten into Saint Sebastian. You split now, with a promise of a 7 minute search and shot of tequila on the rooftop.

 

The back lounge is crowded, not so much you can’t breathe, but enough for the couple along the back wall to go unnoticed. _Is that how you’re supposed to kiss? What the fuck is that? Is he trying to eat her?_ You’re about to give up and turn back for that tequila shot when a glimmer catches the corner of your eye.

 

 _June._ Just a flash of red hair and a blue sequins. A jumpsuit of some sort. Two other girls are being ushered around the same corner and down a flight of stairs. A cellar from the looks of it. Perry , nervous, fidgety, and the damn doppelganger of Shaggy himself, looks wide eyed and bewildered as he follows two larger men down the same stairs. Your eyes meet briefly, and something flickers, a silent question of “who are you?”. His steely gray eyes didn’t ask for help though and the slow motion trance broke with the eye contact.

 

The pulsing lights filtered the grinding, hypnotized bodies back into focus. Blinders. Blinders made of lights, heavy beats, rum, and coke of both varieties. It’s hard to find answers when your eyes can’t focus.  

* * *

 

You race to the rooftop bar as quickly as possible without raising suspicion. You smile warmly at the bartender as you approach, his face is pulled into tight lipped concern his eyes glancing at a pair of men at the counter. Following his line of sight you spot your boys. Owen doesn’t look so good, the panic plastered on Joe’s face as he hands the deputy shots only cements the nausea in your stomach.

 

“C’mon buddy, drink up. This’ll help, or maybe not. But it’ll hurt a lot less.”

 

“What’s going on?” grabbing Joe’s arm you try to shake him. The bartender speaks up over Joe’s incoherent mumbles.

 

“I walked a way to hook up a new keg and some guy slung a shot for your buddy,” he gestures to Joe with concern, “we think it was antifreeze, at least it smelled like it, I’ve got an ambulance on the way.” The blood in your veins runs ice cold.

 

Turning to Owen you speak lowly, “I saw them. I saw June and Perry. They’re here but we’ll have to come back, we’re going to get you taken care of. It’s going to be okay.” You reassure the man, he nods but points at Joe. “He’ll take me. You can’t leave, this is the biggest break we’re likely to get.”

 

“He’s right Bex. I’ve got him. We’ll go get this taken care of and then book a hotel room. I’ll text you the address from his phone.” He grasps your arm with a reassuring squeeze, “You can do this, but call if you need help.” All you can do is nod, silently hoping this pans out, if it doesn’t you may never be able to look Owen in the eyes again.

* * *

 

The echo of your own black stilettos are the only sharp sound as you head back down to the lounge. The answers were down _there._ You knew it was Russian Roulette. The same uneasy feeling, the same silent hope. Like ripe fruit.

 

_Waiting._

 

Each click of your heels bringing it closer to dropping. Left hand on the corner’s edge, eyes on the downward spiral, right hand lifting the hem of red silk up to the cool metal of a side piece.

 

_One hand on the small of your open back._

 

“ _Don’t_.” A whisper, almost sensual, lightly accented. You want to whip around and bring a sharp elbow to their jaw, but you fight the instinct, forcing your muscles to relax. An eye cast back towards the throbbing dance floor. A slim redhead, they seem to be tonight’s special, coated in sparkling red lipstick and poured into a black dress.

 

“Why?”

 

“You’re asking the right questions. You’re swimming too deep.” Eyes on the downward spiral.

“I know.” A quiet admission from a young detective cast in the glow of purple light, soaked in rum. Her voice brings you back to a not so distant job offer, _you could be a hero,_ she had promised the world and you had promised yourself to a small town.

 

“I can help, Raina,” you turn slowly, meeting eyes, catching the now red lights on a metallic hourglass cuff. “I can help. Let me help.” You think briefly of Owen, of Joe. How tired the group was, how dangerous this was becoming, the undertow of dread that had taken hold. They were intelligent, brave, loyal to a fault. They were scared too. Hell, they would be crazy not to be.

 

She places her hands on your waist, starting a slow rhythm. You felt like prey for a fleeting moment. Watching her face though, you knew two professionals were face to face, acting decidedly unprofessional. Pulling her closer, you brush your lips against the shell of her ear, a lingering note of her perfume steels you and you say a silent prayer for those Phoenicia boys.

 

Fuck if you were going to be the one to put them in any more danger.

 

“Then help me, Natasha.” A faint smile graces her lips and a gust of cold air hits your back as someone slips into the alley for a smoke. You’re tugged the opposite direction, further into the throb of the club.

 

You had met the Black Widow once before during an unnamed recruitment program. You were both younger then.

* * *

  


You gave her the shorthand version of your current case over a gin and tonic. She was familiar with your work back home already. She suggested a small sting operation at the club tonight, well more of a reconnaissance mission, but her intel brought to the table a whispered rumor of something more sinister than drugs under the floorboards.

 

“Human - trafficking? You’re fucking kidding me.”

 

“It’s just a rumor, what worries me is that we’re both here on different leads.” throwing back the rest of her drink, she offers her hand to you.

 

“Worse yet, someone already doesn’t like me,” you murmur, pulling her to the edge of the crowded dance floor. Both pairs of eyes could watch the abyss of the stairs from here and the untrained eye coming up them wouldn’t pay the two of you any mind. “My partner was poisoned earlier.”

 

“I know, I saw,” she must catch the glint of anger, “I would have helped if you had shown up any later.” You hope she would have, but the thought is dashed as she closes the distance and wraps herself around you. The brief flash of a large man catches your peripheral.

 

 _“They’re watching. Come on, Raina, we have to make them stop.”_ You know she’s right, the weight of being watched is heavier than you would think. Briefly scanning the room you begin to plan an escape route but are interrupted by the roll of the spy’s hips.

 

 _Fuck._ She felt so damn good. Good enough to ignite a hot blue flame which threatened to burn through the cavern of your rib cage. There was no point fighting that fire. You give her a sharp look, her eyes are watching the room, but with a jolt of your hip, she focuses on your face.

 

“Is this your plan?”

 

“People hate watching PDA, it’s science, they’ll look away more often than not.” Her words are spoken matter of factly against your lips, before angling for a deep kiss, clean but in no way professional.

 

“Alright, but remember, _you asked for this._ ” Life went white hot, her neck arching to meet your open mouth kisses, teeth nipping into her skin occasionally as a reminder. _You asked for this._ You asked for my fingers toying with the hem of your dress. You asked for me to ruin your lipstick. You asked for the curve of my thumb along your breast. Natasha knew she had and was relishing in every moment. You were only following orders when you catch the largest of the three men from earlier scaling up the stairs. He slips through the side entrance and into the night.

 

_Perry’s still down there._

 

Your new partner’s left-hand gropes your ass hard.

 

“Stop staring,” You groan, wanting to defy her and give chase, but wanting her in this moment even more, “relax, we can’t go down there for a little while anyway, you know that.” You do know that. You have to be sure about Perry, so you have to wait and see if he appears, at least for a little while.

 

Settling in for the wait, you slot your thigh between hers, relishing the moan dripping from her lips. Her forehead rests on your shoulder, her body grinding down, chasing an invisible high.

 

You had met Natasha once before. You were both younger, but not so different.


	6. Deputize Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen's health puts you in a tricky position with Tony Stark and Natasha. A bigger plan is set in motion.

**_2 am_ **

 

You found yourself fighting heavy rain sprinting after a taxi cab. Heels in one hand, clutch in the other. Natasha, the infamously professional Black Widow, had kept you at Saint Sebastian until closing. She never let you descend the stairs. You never got that big break and she had teased you with the promise of it all night. You were pissed. A series of short texts with Joe via Owen’s phone at 1:45 informed you the  deputy was to be hospitalized until further notice. They weren’t sure what was in that cocktail but Owen was facing some seriously bad aftermath. You had been assured he was stable, but with a growl of a threat to Natasha you had ditched the club to see for yourself.

 

She had been toying with you, looking for more information, trying to see what you knew. You cursed her and then yourself. Her for finding you, for being so wrapped up in her own mission to remember other people were involved. Yourself for not remembering what she was. Old habits die hard, regardless of how good someone was trying to be.

 

Slipping into the warm backseat of a checker cab you rattle off the details of the hospital.  Sharp clicks of the now frozen rain rap on the windows, competing with the swift taps of your texting.

 

_ <Remind me never to leave you guys again.> _

 

_ <We’re hard company to beat. Any luck? - Joe> _

 

_ <No. An old acquaintance paid a visit and ruined everything. I’m sorry.> _

 

_ <Don't be. Sometimes you can’t help this shit. We’re only 18 hours in anyways.> _

 

_ <Here’s hoping I get better at my job in the next 30 hours> _

 

_ <Ha ha very funny. You’re good at your job. It was never going to be easy anyways.> _

 

You had been _very_ lucky. Maurice had been helpful and under other circumstances you would have considered yourself to be making great strides. This wasn’t other times though.

 

Faint music drifted through the holes in the plastic partition “ _This time my best wasn’t good enough. Well,fuck, usually it is.”_ How appropriate.

 

The song is interrupted by the loud ding of your phone earning a narrow eyed glance from the driver. It was a selfie Joe had taken of him and Owen, who was struggling to eat Jello.

 

_ <We love you. Hurry up.> _

 

You don’t know what you did to deserve them. A tight little team, your ragtag family. The anger ebbs for a moment when the car pulls to the curb. You could still trust them to have your back. They wouldn’t hate you for this loss, might even say it was for the better. The thought calms you.

 

Stepping out of the taxi, you brace yourself for the freezing temps and little balls of ice pelting down. That cold front must be chasing you, you think, darting for the hospital doors.

* * *

 

Bucky watched the well built woman from down the hall. Her face was easy to read. She had reheated her coffee too many times waiting in this dingy room. It was scorched. Bitter and hot like the tears she was holding back. For fuck’s sake, Nat could have found anyone for him to work with. A whole team of elite, well trained, professionals and she had brought him to this hospital and told him to observe a Detective Raina Bex.

 

_“Barnes, I’ve got a mission for you,” Nat instructed, and though she was one of the easier people to work with in the team, he still didn’t like direct orders._

 

_“Mhm. Is that so?” He crossed his arms, leaning against the door jam. He noted her frazzled appearance, the wrinkled cocktail dress, and the lipstick marks on her face. Of all those things, the look in her eyes worried him the most. It took a lot to shake this woman, and at this point she certainly wasn’t stirred._

 

_“Yeah, remember that experimental lab we found a couple of months back?”_

 

_He nods, how could he forget? A small team of agents had called in a warehouse full of women hooked up to unidentified IVs of chemicals.  None of the women survived more than a few hours after that, and none of them had been able to tell them anything, except one who managed to say a few things in Russian before she passed. Of  fucking course, no one had been able to translate. They were still running tests on the serums found, but Bucky knew deep down what it was from the moment they reported back._

 

_“Yeah. I do.”_

 

_He could count on one finger the amount of times the Black Widow had looked at him with apology in her eyes, but at this moment he figured a second finger was in order._

 

_“We found someone who’s been following the case from the opposite end. We need you to go in with them,” she speaks softly, laying a hand on his bicep. “I’m so sorry, Barnes. I would send someone else if I could.”_

 

_He shakes his head. He knows he’s their best option, no matter how afraid or how compromised he is. “Tell me about the team. Where are they from? Ranks?”_

 

_“It’s just the one woman,” she clarifies, and for some reason fear flits across her face._

 

_“Okay, so a spy? Another agent? Who am I working with?”_

 

_“Her name’s Raina Bex. She’s a detective.”_

 

_Okay, he could work with that. The FBI and CIA and SHIELD had trained many skilled detectives._

 

_“Great. What branch?”_

 

_“Phoenicia's police department,” she drops the bomb, more composed than before as she awaits his reaction with a narrow eyed gaze._

 

_“Excuse me, what?”_

 

From what he knew and gathered from the notes Nat had taken, Raina loved her team. She needed them to be okay. He also knew she needed a break in the case the same as she needed warm blood in their veins. Raina Bex. His new partner. Already halfway gone in grief, an earthquake of a shaking knee jostling her whole body, her arms braced on her thighs, and her head down. A prick of sympathy evoked goosebumps; he knew that brand of hopelessness, but he stayed quiet, slipping out of sight.

 

“I’m going to go talk to her. Don’t let her see you. She can be aggressive.”

 

He nods, watching Nat’s uncharacteristically nervous steps. The woman sitting at the end of the hall may be swimming in emotion, but she wasn’t unaware. Her shoulders tensed at the light click of heels in the din of the medical ward.

 

“Raina.”

 

The woman’s eyes shot up at Nat, sharp and furious.

 

“You could have stopped this.”

 

Biting, concise, and unrelenting. Bucky swore the redhead shuddered.

 

“Rania, I know you’re worried and scared for him, but don’t give up on this just to keep them safe. Every one of us knows what we signed up for.”

 

“That’s the thing Nat, he didn’t sign up for this; he shouldn’t have to. I know, you think you couldn’t risk blowing your fucking cover. Fuck that though. This is my partner we’re talking about. You almost let him _die.”_

 

Fiercely loyal, that was a good sign. One loyal person could be better than five trained agents, with the right approach.

 

“You have to understand, there was nothing I could do.”

 

With that, the opposing woman stands, drawn up to her full height, badge shining underneath her jacket as it settles.

 

She looked down right _deadly_ and her voice dips low, just shy of malevolent. “You could have done everything, but your humanity got lost somewhere. You sucked me into it. This is exactly why I never could have worked with you.”

 

The hardened spy shriveled out of the detective's way, a woman on the warpath as she barrelled past his hiding spot in the shadows. Bucky suddenly felt better about the whole situation. That thunderstorm of a woman may be in over her head but at least he knew she wasn’t running.

* * *

 

After being rebuffed for two hours straight, Natasha was forced to call in the big guns. This explains why you, Owen, and Joe were sequestered in Owen’s hospital room with your phone on speaker. Nat catches the tight lipped smile you share with your deputy as Tony Stark drones on.

 

“Listen, we can provide top of the line, _best of the best_ medical care for your partner. Free of charge! _If_ you agree to help us out on this one.” You had no idea why or how or when the Avengers were linked to this case, but Tony doesn’t exactly break for questions. “You’re good, kid. We could _really_ use you. Ah, damn that sounds presumptuous doesn’t it? Let me try again. We admire your dedication to this case and would appreciate your insight, Detective Bex. Hell, I’ll take care of Deputy Price myself. You can bring him in to the tower tonight if you want.”

 

Tony Stark is confident, overzealous, and brash. The glances and nods you receive from your two partners, Joe having been long worthy of the title, show they know the man means well.

 

“Okay, Stark. I’ll bring Price over as soon as possible,” you agree as you run a hand through your hair and down the back of your neck, exhaustion hitting hard, “as soon as we can get him discharged.”

 

“Glad to hear it. I’ll have my team get rooms ready and your least favorite super spy will introduce you to your new partner when you get here.”

 

You groan, “I have a partner.”

 

“Yeah, sure, but he’s out of commission for the foreseeable future and this can’t wait.”

 

You cringe at the click of the call ending and all it insinuates.

 

Owen pipes up from his place in bed with a sly smile, “He’s right, Bex. Don’t worry, my heart can take it.”

 

Joe’s roaring laughter eases the tension from you, a genuine smile slipping onto your lips.

 

“We can hold down the fort, detective,” Joe says as he grasps your hand and forces eye contact. “Go save the world with all that Stark money and this mysterious new partner. I’m sure whoever they are will be let down after us anyways,” he finishes with a waggle of his eyebrows.

 

You nod in agreement and squeeze his hand, “Alright boys, I guess we’re doing this.”

 

Hope leaks back into the room and you scramble off in different directions in search of a nurse to approve discharge. Well, you and Joe scramble, Owen presses his call button repeatedly much to the charigin of the whole ward.

* * *

  


It’s just past 5 am when you slide into the back of a well appointed limo Stark had sent over for you. You had insisted on accompanying Owen in an ambulance, but the eccentric man on the other end of the line had insisted you deserve a few moments of peace. Admittedly, this is the nicest part of your trip to NYC.  You took the time to drop a line to Eaton before slipping into a light sleep for the duration of the traffic bridled drive.

 

_ < We ran into some trouble at the club, Owen was hospitalized but Joe saved the day and he’s stable now. We’re moving him to Tony Stark’s facilities. Apparently the Avengers, or some subsection, have been working the same case. I’ll call when I know more. Everything okay there? > _

 

_ <Bex. I was starting to worry. Thing are fine here. Glad to hear Price is okay, please keep me updated I can’t really lose a deputy right now. Figures this evolved into something nastier though. What’s the suspicion?> _

 

_ <Human trafficking.> _

 

_ <Well, fuck.> _

 

< _I know. I’ll be in touch shortly._ >

 

< _Sounds good. Please be careful, all of you, even Joe. We would like to see you make it back home._ >

 

Yeah, you would like to see that too.

* * *

 

Rolling up to the sleek tower, you’re both impressed and terrified at the showy building which marks the pinnacle of Tony Stark’s success for the world to see. How the fuck did you end up here? What has your life become? What has this case become? Are you even going to survive this? The delirious, panicked spiral of your mind is stopped abruptly by your door opening. A large bald man in a sleek black suit offers his hand to help you out.

 

“Detective Bex, Mr. Stark is awaiting you in the medical lab. He’s getting your partner settled,” the man explains calmly, and you nod in a daze as you step out into the rainy daybreak. “Would you like me to escort you?”

 

“Yes, please. I’m not even sure I have the clearance to be in here.”

 

He chuckles, “You do, but it can be a bit of a maze. No worries, I’ll get you there.”

 

You lengthen your strides to catch up to the man, passing through the main doors, through the lobby, and down a series of shimmering, sterilized corridors. He stops in front of a large medical suite, where you can see Owen being hooked up to a variety of monitors and IVs by a small army of nurses. Joe hovers at the foot of the bed, brow furrowed. You finish your scan of the room through the glass just as the silver door slides open.

 

“This is where I leave you. Try not to worry about your friend. Mr. Stark will provide the best care available.”

 

You shake hands, genuinely grateful. “Thank you.”

 

Watching him disappear down the hall, you straighten your spine, square your shoulders, and breach the threshold like a cold front, swirling towards the dark haired man speaking to a doctor in the far corner. You recognize him immediately.

 

“Stark?”

 

His head pops up from the charts he’s reviewing and he smiles brightly, extending his hand to you.

 

“Detective Raina Bex, it’s a pleasure,” he says as he shakes your hand with practiced ease and all that overly confident swagger. “Who knew small town detectives were so stunning?”

 

You can’t help the slight blush rising in your cheeks. “I really appreciate you taking Owen in like this.”

 

“And I really appreciate you coming in to the fold on this one,” he replies as he gestures to the doctor who has gravitated to Owen’s side. “That’s Dr. Medlin. She’ll be overseeing your partner’s care and recovery. He’s free to stay as long as he needs and serve as a liaison for you while you’re overseas.”

 

You feel yourself start and look at him, shocked. “I’m sorry, overseas? Stark, I don’t have jurisdiction anywhere but New York.”

 

“Please, call me Tony,” he insists as he clasps your shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. ”And don’t worry about that; we’re getting the clearance mess sorted out for you.”

 

Despite the nervousness, you feel a storm rising inside you. The audacity of this guy is really something.

 

“ _Excuse_ me? Who gave _you_ access to _my_ credentials? It sure as _hell_ wasn’t Owen or Eaton, and you sure as hell don’t have any authority over me so let’s get this straight right fucking _now_ . I am here as a free agent to assist on this case because my partner almost _died_ . I am not here to be kept in the dark or to give up my freedom to operate. I’m here for Owen and I’m here for Phoenicia. So please, do not do _anything_ regarding me or this case without consulting me.”

 

Your voice is louder than intended, and by the looks on the faces in the room, your words hit like a hurricane. Tony is startled, but seamlessly slips into an apologetic smile with a shake of his head.

 

“I’m sorry, I thought it would be easier if I handled it behind the scenes.”

 

“None of this has been easy. I’m not looking for easy,” you snap, allowing your glare to relent a fraction without losing your sincerity. “I want it done _right_.”

 

Tony relaxes his tense posture when he realizes that you do not actually want to bite his head off.

 

“I do too,” he says softly, and even though the exchange wasn’t exactly graceful or tactful, at least you now know that Tony is on the same page. Then, his gaze is shifting past you and back towards the door with a smirk. “I really like her, just for the record. You sure I can’t be her partner?”

 

You whip around to face whoever he’s speaking to, all tentative ease you had been building gone as your cheeks flush and fire builds in your gut. Nat is the one who is standing there wide eyed but with a reassuring smile, which you know means you’re in the green. Standing next to her is a tower of a man with dark disheveled hair and thick muscles accentuated by his crossed arms. You take the few moments afforded by everyone recovering from shock to rake your gaze over him. He looks dangerous.

 

You decide to set aside your anger with Nat; it wasn’t going to get you anywhere.

 

“Hey Nat. Is this my new partner?”

 

Her relieved smile is all you need to bring yourself back down. “Hey Raina. Yes, this is Agent Barnes. You probably know him better as the Winter Soldier.”

 

He nods in acknowledgement, relaxing his stance to reach out and shake your hand.

 

“Detective Bex. I’m sorry about your partner.”

 

His grip is firm but cold and short-lived. You realize it’s a metal prosthetic and he’s probably not comfortable with extended contact, filing it away for future reference.

 

“Hey! It’s not like I’m dead!” Owen shouts from the bed, pouting. Tony and Joe’s snickers earn a dirty look from the deputy.

 

You roll your eyes in their direction as well. “Thank you, Agent Barnes. Let’s end this thing before anyone else gets hurt.”

 

A stab of guilt and anxiety, a tell-tale sign of the knife in your gut returning. He nods with sympathetic eyes. You knew a bit of his history from the news and figure there are few people who know better about this helpless feeling than him. Loss tinges every hope in this line of work it seems.

 

“Raina, are you ready to debrief?” Nat touches your elbow and begins to guide you out of the room as she speaks.

 

Your heart aches for a moment. This was the first step you would be taking in the case without Owen. Looking back towards the two men, they give a brief thumbs up over their coffee mugs. They’ll be fine, you know, but you hate to leave them here.

 

There’s a slight pull on your arm asking you to move through the door.

 

“Hold your horses, Nat. I’m coming,” you sigh as you  turn to tease her, but instead of familiar curves and red hair, you are met with the solid form of your new partner. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t realize it was you. Lead the way.”

 

“They’ll be okay here, Stark has the best doctors on staff,” Barnes says stoically, his pattern of speech calm and controlled. “Are you going to be okay?”

 

“Have to be, right? This is the kind of stuff we wish we never have to see, but it isn’t my first rodeo. It’s fuel in the tank to get this done quick,” you answer, the lilt of your voice pitches and rolls like steam off concrete in the summer in contrast to Barnes low timbre.

 

The two of you walk in silence the rest of the way to a conference room where Nat has set up  every possible piece to the puzzle you have so far. You haven’t been to a proper debrief in a while, and the enormity of the task at hand sends an illicit thrill down your spine. This is why you became a detective. The mystery, careful study, and on occasion, climatic action that brought down bad guys.

 

You sit down and a cup of coffee is placed in front of you by an anxious intern. The warm aroma is comforting - so much better than burnt hospital crap -  and your shoulders roll out of habit as your body settles from the adrenaline high of the past eighteen hours. An unsettling grinding sound emits from them, earning concerned glances from both the intern and your new partner seated on the other side of the table. You shoot a small smile at the two of them. They seem appeased, but Barnes’ eyes do a once over, looking for signs of injury.

 

“I’m good,” you assure, throwing him a pointed look and he turns his attention to the spy at the head of the table.

 

“Alright, let’s get you two up to speed.”

* * *

 

 

Bone aching exhaustion sets in after the debrief. It had taken about an hour, which is short by most mission standards, but so chock full of information you swear your head is swelling. Thankfully, you had taken shorthand notes out of habit, so even in your sleep deprived state you at least had something to look back on.

 

Most of the stateside gaps had been filled in by your team’s work and suspicions. There was indeed an underground ring of drug lords who were tempting dealers into games of “roulette” - a term they had lifted from your original reports in Texas. This involved each small time guy bringing in a girl, previous drug use not required, to a party of around 12 other pairs. The girls were then injected with various strains of heroin, crack, and some unknown substances in just shy of lethal quantities. The girl who survived the longest earned her dealer a larger cut of their local supply. If a girl managed not to succumb to the hallucinations or a horrendous overdose, the dealer was given a huge upfront prize of cash and drugs in exchange for her. It was meant to distract them from asking questions. As always though, someone's guilty conscience won out. A brazen man from Baltimore had come forward after his girlfriend was taken. He has since gone missing, but his story was enough to validate the theory. Not that you needed convincing. You had known since you heard about Perry and June.

 

Nat had apparently gone back to the club while you were transporting Owen to Stark Tower. Her report was on par with the information you already had, but with the addition of one dead June Carrel. You couldn’t help but bow your head in sorrow when Nat informed you. The poor thing had just turned seventeen. Both well trained spies looked sympathetic, but that kind of news hung heavy in the heart of a small town cop. You could name every person lost in every case you’ve ever worked; you had known their stories, what would have been waiting if they made it home. The empathy they had beaten down still ran steady in you. It wasn’t a weakness, but life had been far unkinder to the two of them, and they were hesitant to show any.

 

They had been hard at work on the opposite end of this overseas. You were shown tragic crime scene photos and even a few interviews with agents involved, but It boiled down to a horrific test lab they had found in Russia. The faces found there matched missing persons posters from all over the United States. Agent Barnes contributed a brief description of his time at HYDRA’s labs and the comparison was eerie. Your nerves frayed a little. You were dismissed shortly after.

 

After a quick check-in to make sure Owen was settled comfortably, you dial Eaton.  The whole situation is starting to panic you. It’s time to shake up the team and you need him fully on board before you leave the country. You hate the idea of leaving Owen and Joe vulnerable.

 

“Finally decide to give me an update?” The chief’s voice is terse and the anxiety in your gut stabs a little harder.

 

“Eaton, I’m so sorry. This has me stretched thinner than bible paper. I just got out of the briefing.”

 

A heavy sigh echoes across the line.

 

“I can’t begin to imagine. I’m not upset, Bex. This is a little out of all of our wheelhouses,” he speaks slow and steady, “I’m worried about Price, about you, hell I’m even starting to grow concerned for Joe.”

 

“I am too,” you echo, pacing the length of the corridor. You nod at Barnes as he leans up against a door frame, listening to your conversation. “Eaton, they need me to go to Russia. Turns out the roulette theory was right, and it really is Russian.”

 

You swear you hear the slam of a mug on his antique desk and he comes back hot, “Fuck. Bex you don’t have to do that! It’s not your jurisdiction, and your partner is still under medical supervision for fuck’s sake!”

 

“I know, I know. I do have to do this though. I know this case and they’ve assigned me a very capable partner,” you try to convince the Chief, doing a once over of the man at the end of the hallway as he pretends not to notice. “I do, however, think it’s time you made Owen a detective.”

 

“If you’re leaving, I really have no choice. The best place for him is at Stark’s right now, so he can serve as your stateside contact from there I suppose,” you hear him grumble and imagine he’s nodding along, taking notes in his worn notebook. ”What about Joe? And who’s your partner? I want to know who to kill if you don’t make it back.”

 

The heaviness of the comment hangs for a moment before you answer. The thought of anyone killing the Winter Soldier seems impossible, laughable even, but this was no time for jokes.

 

“I agree, Price is good stationed here. I think it may be worth considering deputizing Joe as well; he’s certainly proven he’s worth his salt. Plus, he’s a veteran so he has the discipline and weapons training,” you add, knowing you’re pushing your luck. Then, there’s a low hum, like he’s taking the suggestion seriously. You take that as your cue to continue. “As for my partner, his name is Agent James Barnes.”

 

“Wait, you meant to tell me you’re working with the infamous Winter Soldier?”

 

You’ve paced down to Barnes’ spot in the hall, pulling the phone from your ear when Eaton yells. A small smirk graces his face, but there’s a jab of pain in his eyes as well.

 

“Well, I don’t think he goes by that anymore, but yes. What do you think about Joe?”

 

“I’m not any less concerned than I was,” Eaton says with another sigh. This conversation had to be aging him a decade. “I think you’re right about Joe. Send him back my way and I’ll handle it. Give him the keys to your place too. Generally speaking, my deputies need places to live. All your bases are loaded now, Bex. Bring this home for us.”

 

“I have every intention to, sir. I’ll give Joe everything he needs. He won’t disappoint.”

 

“I have faith in him if you do.” There’s a quiet moment that follows, and you suspect this is the last time you ever speak to your chief. “Good luck, Raina.”

 

“Thank you, Eaton.”

 

The call ends with a click.

 

_This is probably going to be the end of you._

You want to sink down to the cold tile and scream for fear and sorrow. That would be weak though. Agent Barnes doesn’t need to see that side of you, so you brace your hip against the wall and watch him approach from the corner.

* * *

  


Bucky can’t help but notice that your shoulders don’t tense as he approaches. Your eyes are hallowed from lack of sleep and anxiety, but there’s a small smile and nod in greeting.

 

“Hey partner.”

 

No hint of an accent. Though the way your hip juts into the wall to support the rest of your frame topped with crossed arms is reminiscent of old west cowboys. No doubt the town you started in trusted that image and you just stuck with it.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his approach slow. He’s used to putting distance between himself and others to keep them from running in fear. You pay no mind.

 

“Honestly? A little frayed. This is larger than I ever fathomed.”

 

Bucky quirks an eyebrow at your words. You can’t possibly be tapping out this early? Sure, he would have liked a more experienced team, but this is a woman who clearly knows her shit. Starting from scratch with someone who had never touched the case wasn’t particularly appealing.

 

“I can hear your mind working overtime. Don’t worry, I intend to see this through,” you blurt with no fillers, no filters, just steady eye contact accompanying the reassurance. “I know I’m not what you expected or what you’re used to working with, but I’m here and I’ll give this everything I’ve got in me.”

 

Bucky’s mind hasn’t stopped working.   _Do you even know what everything means?_ Surely, you must have some idea; you’re a cop after all, and a good one at that. There are so many worries associated with a partner so young, so dedicated. It reminds him of Steve.

 

The woman in front of him isn’t Steve though. You’ve already seen things above your pay grade, and the weight of loss is heavy in your bones. There’s a flash in your eyes that hints at dangerous intentions. A temper, well hidden, and he was willing to bet you’re no moralist. You aren’t Steve. You are a warm breeze in a cold front, unexpected and concerning.

 

A gentle hand on his flesh arm brings him out of his analysis. He jolts, stepping back and looks at you sharply. You’re startled but too tired to do anything about it.

 

“There you are.”

 

You step closer to him again and it dawns on him. You’re searching his face for any hint of his thoughts, eyes wild verging on scared.

* * *

  


You don’t know where his head is, but you need him to be grounded because you’re flat out panicking. You can’t help but think of Nat telling you that you were in too deep. That was in a nightclub in your own country. Now you’ve agreed to be shipped halfway across the world with a man you don’t know outside of the news. You don’t speak the language, have the extensive intelligence training, or a familiar face to guide you.

 

What you do have is Agent Barnes. Whether you trust him or not was up for debate. This hits a little too close to home for him, and you’re unsure of how this will pan out once you touch down in Russia. None of that matters right now though; you are going with him regardless. In this moment, he’s your life line. You’re desperate for reassurance, acceptance, or any sort of validation. You hate that you need it, but you do.

 

Finally, he’s shaken from his reverie and leans back against the wall with you.

 

“So, how long have you been doing this?”

 

He’s casual with the question, but the nerves in your system have you barking out a laugh.

 

“Oh come on. Are we going to pretend you haven’t read every file on my life and the cases I’ve worked?” you scoff as you offer a grin despite the self-doubt plaguing your mind.

 

The corner of his lips quirks up. “I guess not. I’m gonna be honest though. After reading your work, I was expecting someone older.”

 

“Thank you, but by my calculations you’re plenty old enough for the both of us, Barnes.”

 

The snark earns a quiet chuckle.

 

He reaches to shake your hand as if introducing himself as someone different. “Please, if we’re going to be partners, you should call me Bucky.”

 

“Alright, Bucky it is,” you test the name on your tongue and return the gesture. ”Raina or Bex works fine for me. Never both though, or you’ll sound like my mother.”

 

As if on cue, Nat appears at the end of the hallway with Joe in tow. You practically sprint to him, thinking the worst.

 

“Woah, woah, hold your horses Detective. Owen’s alright, currently undergoing some scans and such. I’m here to tell you to go kick Russia’s ass,” he says as he pulls you into a tight hug. “And thank you, from the both of us.”

 

You smile, pressing a ring of keys for the house and office in Phoenicia into his palm.

 

“You deserve it, Deputy. Hold down the fort for me, yeah?”

 

A teary smile graces your face and Nat and Bucky avert their eyes from the emotional scene.

 

“You got it. We’ll be the best damn liaisons you ever had,” he swears, and your phone buzzes in your pocket, Eaton’s name flashing on the screen. You toss it to Joe.

 

“Keep up with this and him. I’ll be back for both later.”

 

He laughs with a lopsided grin. “We’ll be waiting Bex.”

 

Nat clears her throat, touching your elbow, “Wheels up in ten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! This chapter is the culmination of many late nights. Please drop a kudos or a comment if you love it or have any suggestions!


	7. Poirot in the Wild West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. I am alive. Let me know what you think!

“Hey Rocket Man, what’s all this?” Teasing the billionaire comes easy, with the bonus of masking your nerves. You gesture to the table Nat leads you to. Bucky is already standing on the other side.

 

You exchange a smirk with Tony when he looks up from the gear neatly laid out in front of him.

 

“If it isn’t our resident Poirot,” he announces as he grins widely, gesturing to the spread with pride. “These are your toys.”

 

Nat speaks up, bewildered, “Wait. Did you change your name since we met last? I thought for sure I had all your files up to date,” she rattles. Her brows furrow as she tries to remember, her eidetic memory failing her. “I don’t recall you getting married or changing anything. Did I miss something? I’m so sorry if I did, I can change it.” 

 

Bucky barks out a laugh and everyone jumps a little, refocusing on him. “You mean Poirot, Nat? That’s the detective from Agatha Christie’s novels,” he explains as he looks down, shaking his head. “Even I know that.” 

 

You can’t help but smile at the nickname. It’s substantial, it screams  _ capable.  _

 

“As much as I love mocking a super spy, let’s get you set up.” Tony starts pulling various weapons across the table in front of you as he speaks. “I kept it pretty old school for you. I figured coming from the wild west you wouldn’t appreciate all the bells and whistles.”   
  


You laugh, schucking off your jacket to put on the set of shoulder holsters he hands you. In one swift motion, the coffee colored leather is folded down the spine and the holsters adjusted on your back. You pull your side piece from its place on your belt with a distinctive snap. The easy graces of a cop that had settled in your muscle memory. Tony motions to take the Smith & Wesson Model 29, issued by your first Police Chief, from you. 

 

“I keep my gun,” you say as you bypass his hand to place it in the holster over your shoulder where it settles against your ribcage.

 

His jaw goes slack at the motion. “You’re kidding. I’m offering you a set of top of the line glocks and you want an antiquated piece of junk.” 

 

You size up the gun he hands you: 9 mm and light as a feather. The new pieces are pretty with their black sleek lines. 

 

“These are nice,” you admit. Tony grins at your response and pushes the second one across the table, only for you to shake your head no. “I’ll take one. I’m a better shot with a familiar gun.” 

 

The man massages his temple and groans. Eaton would appreciate the headache. “Fine. You hear that, Barnes? Your partner is going in with a dueling pistol.” 

 

You roll your eyes at Tony’s exasperated tone.

 

Bucky grunts in response, “If she’s a better shot, let her keep it.” 

 

Some of the anxiety melts away at his approval. Sure, you knew it was true, but an experienced agent backing you up never hurt. Much to the mad scientist’s chagrin, you smirk and adjust both weapons. 

 

“You want to tell me why we’re sending these two again? As much as I like her sass, she’s going to be the death of me,” Tony asks as he looks to Natasha, but you reply before she has the chance. 

 

“If I didn’t think I was an asset to this mission I wouldn’t have come, Stark. As for my sass. You’ll learn to love it and live with it just like Joe and Owen.” Between your tone and the mention of your partners, the words are final. ”The way I operate is the way this case was solved last time. Have a little faith.”

 

He’s slack jawed again, looking from your dismissive face to Natasha’s smirk and back again. 

 

“That’s why she’s going. They’re going together because they’re mission oriented and I believe they can appreciate each other’s tactics.” Nat waves a hand as if it’s obvious and types out a message on her phone. ”I’ve got to go. Good luck Raina, Barnes.” 

 

She embraces you briefly and nods at your new partner. Her heels click out of the hangar just as loudly as they did in the club. 

 

“Bye to you too!” Tony calls after her.  He receives no reply. “You know Bex, I don’t know whether to hate you or kiss you.” 

 

You can’t help but laugh. “Play your cards right and you might not have to choose.” 

 

The comment earns a genuine smile from Tony and a subconscious uptick in Bucky’s stoic face.

 

“Alright, enough fun and games. Let’s get on our way.” Bucky’s voice is certain but not aggressive. “Stark, finish setting her up. I’ll go prep the jet.”

 

“Sure thing,” he says while he rolls his eyes, turning back to you. “The rest is pretty standard issue with some upgrades in materials.” 

 

He starts packing a black duffle with a couple pairs of tactical pants, a bullet proof vest, and clips. He hands you a folding knife with a four inch blade. A great tactical and defensive choice, small enough to conceal but requires pretty quick reflexes to get a hit with a four inch blade. 

 

“These are the important ones,” he says as he places two small silver objects in your outstretched hand. “The earpiece is a comms system that links directly to Barnes. Its output is scrambled so you’re radio silent to anyone but me. This - ” he holds up a button sized lens, “ - is a camera. Use at your discretion; I’m sure you understand that while this may be important we don’t need video evidence of  _ everything  _ you two do.” 

 

You nod, cringing at the implication. Not because you were afraid, but because you knew this would be  _ vicious.  _ You didn’t want anyone from Phoenicia seeing that bloodshed. Tony claps you on the back and shoulders the duffle he packed. 

 

“I’m going to make sure Barnes didn’t break anything. Take a few minutes if you need it. I’ll take this up for you.” 

 

He saunters off before you have a chance to reply and you watch him deftly navigate his way up and into the quinjet. You take the moment to slide your jacket back on and pin your badge to the inside lining. The city name on the badge hadn’t been right in a long time, but you would never give it up.

* * *

  
  
  


The hangar doors slide open shortly after and the previously dull thrum of rain becomes deafening, the smell of cold water and earth flooding your senses. You can’t help walking to the edge and extending your hand palm up. Sharp, cold drops part like curtains and whip around your face. It’s grounding, better than any of the gallons of coffee you’ve ingested in the past twelve hours. You’re tempted to lean your face into it, maybe never stop leaning into it. You could disappear like the rest of those poor girls, into the case that seems intent on chasing you you through the years. Leaning would be easy. The rain angles itself harshly, pricking your skin like needles, angling to push you from the edge. You relish the feeling with eyes closed. The lull and pitch of voices at the boarding door sound a mile away. 

 

The flap of wings clipping by your head brings a blast of water and a reality check. You shake your head to rid some water and trace the source. A great horned owl peers from the rafters above the quinjet. It’s bright yellow eyes dolling out judgement like a mother on a disobedient child.

 

_ “Raina,” Phoenix’s voice is hushed, legs thrown over your lap, “look.” A delicate finger directs your attention across the small loft. Perched on the firescape is a wide eyed bird with a dish plate of a face. It’s peering around the edges of the frame into the brick walled apartment, the heater is on full blast to fight the early winter cold front. An assortment of mismatched furniture is hidden under layers of blankets and cushions. It’s eyes finally settle on the two of you curled up with your coursework.  _

 

_ You had met studying criminology, second semester of sophomore year. It had been a fast friendship, with concerts, failed tests, and shared ambitions. The two of year were now preparing for your final exams. There’s a finality to it  neither of you were fond of but the same academy had accepted your applications so the blow was softened. _

 

_ “It’s a barn owl,” she creeps slowly and falls to her knees softly as she reaches the window, fingertips grazing the warped glass, “ _ _ You know Native Americans say they’re bad omens. Owls know more than us, they know when things are about to  change.” The owl drops from the railing.  _

 

_ “Oh? Well maybe it’s a good change this time.” You’ve crossed the threshold in time to watch the easy bow and bend of the omen’s wings carry it across the skyline. Phoenix opens the window and steps outside onto the metal fire escape. “It could be that we’re finally going to be joining law enforcement. That’s a big change, and some people may see it as bad.” The last bits of burning sunset shimmer against the glass. _

 

_ You shield your eyes from the glare, “Do you think it’s bad?”  _

 

_ Phoenix answers with an easy laugh, “Just enough to keep it interesting. Why don’t you start another pot of coffee. We’ll take another crack at that case study, yeah?”  _

 

_ “Yeah,” you smile and duck underneath the open window, “You want hazelnut or mocha?” _

 

* * *

  
  


Tony’s voice cuts through the reverie, “You ready to go Wild West?” He’s standing behind you, a few feet from the edge. Turning your head and heel carefully, you smile at the older man. 

 

“I like that one,” you say as you fall into step with him, making your way towards Bucky and the quinjet.

 

“Figures. If you’re going to work with manchurian candidate over there you’ve got to have a taste for the old fashioned,” he chuckles more to himself than you. 

 

* * *

  
  
  


“It’s about a 5 hour flight. Stark’s been working nonstop to make this bird faster.” 

 

Bucky raps on the control panel of the cockpit, turning off autopilot and settling in the pilot’s seat. 

 

“Why not use autopilot?” 

 

He shrugs in response. “I like flying.”

 

The moment the doors had closed and the engines purred to life it felt like you had been sent adrift to a small island. One where only you and the Winter Soldier existed and it was a fucking awful feeling.

 

“Sorry,” you apologize and try and contort your face into something other than concern. “Let’s talk. Who’s our contact? Where’s our safe house?”

 

“That’s not what I want to talk about.” Your face decides on incredulous.

 

“Bucky, that’s the case. I thought I made it clear I need to run point on this.” 

 

He nods in response, some hair falling into his face that he quickly tucks behind his ear.

 

“Raina, we’re partners. I’m not going to hold anything back if you don’t,” he says, then pauses, uncertainty flashing brief as lightning in his blue eyes. “I want to know how you met Natasha.” 

 

A ghastly pale claims your face with a chill. It doesn’t go unnoticed, and Bucky raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Does it matter? You read my file,” you spit, feeling anger and betrayal at the implications of what he’s asking.  

 

“Of course is matters. We need to be able to be open with each other.”

 

“Open and nosy are two different things.”

 

“Raina.”

 

“Bucky. This is one mission. We’re temporary and I’m not here to pull out skeletons with someone I won’t be working with again.”

 

A heavy sigh fills the cabin. “I can appreciate that. Tell me anyways.”

 

“Are you always this pushy or is this special? Just so I know what to prepare for here.” 

 

You raise an eyebrow at the man in the pilot seat, slinging your ankle over your thigh. He huffs and doesn’t shirk from your gaze. 

 

“Tell you what, Agent Barnes. You tell me why you need to know so badly and I’ll answer your question.”

 

“There’s a portion of your record redacted. About a year after you started working as a deputy in Texas,” He says as he taps the controls, adjusting for wind conditions. “Is that when you met her?”

 

You sigh, tracing fingers over the pattern of your pants. “You realize I know nothing about you except what I’ve heard on the news. One little redaction isn’t going to kill you, Bucky.”

 

He glances over at you, before flipping the autopilot on and turning his chair to face you. “It might, Raina. Are you hiding something?”

 

You both were, but one gets used to a little gray area here and there in your line of work. The difference here being you had gray area where Bucky had blackouts. Nat had filled you in a little, enough to put a candle in the middle of a deep cavern.  _ The Winter Soldier.  _ A weapon created, trained, and abused for seventy years by HYDRA. He was, and you suppose still is, the best friend of Captain Steve Rogers. The two had managed to cause a massive rift in the Avengers, one which was slowly knitting back together.  _ Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,  _ an ace sniper even in his younger years. He was a downright menace with all variety of weapons now. Or had been. You weren’t sure how he was in the field, but the video footage you had managed to get your hands on was...impressive 

 

Of course he needed to know everything. He spent so many years in the dark, in the cold. 

 

“Not from you,” you admit, turning to face him, letting your muscles relax. “I met Nat pretty quickly after I graduated from the academy. She scouted both my partner and I for a SHIELD  recruitment program.”

 

His eyes narrow. “No one told me you were part of that.” 

 

You raise your hands defensively. “I wasn’t, I never joined.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Phoenix and I were working for our department during the recruitment process. We had been picked as team rather than individuals. Phoenix was the humanitarian of the two of us, all heart and golden morals. I was the realist, the gray area. The further we got into the recruitment process, the more uncomfortable she got, but I was going to continue.” 

 

You’re uncomfortable now, dredging through memories you would bury in snow drifts if you could. Bucky waits patiently, gaze unwavering. You half expected him to ask why you didn’t join, but then again, he must know that the momentum of the story would bring the answer without the prompt. 

 

“I would have followed her to the ends of the earth. So when she said it was too much, that they had lost their humanity and she couldn’t condone it, I was heartbroken. I was sure joining SHIELD was the best option for me. I was a good officer and Nat had me convinced I could save the world.” 

 

Rain is tapping on the windows of the jet now, and the cold seeps into your bones. You stand in a futile attempt to shake it. Bucky’s eyes follow you, and he moves to stand as well, but you wave him down. You stand with your back to him, hands laced together behind your head.

 

“Then Phoenix was gone.” The tears are sparse but burning hot on your skin. It had been two years, but her loss still twisted in your gut like a knife. “Nat didn’t even bat an eye. She had lost so many people she couldn’t even see, or tried not to see, or whatever it is super spies do. She was too far removed and Phoenix was gone so I stayed. There was no option but to stay in Texas and keep doing the good work she couldn’t.” You rub your arms trying to get some heat anywhere but your face. “Is that the redaction you were looking for?”

 

* * *

 

Bucky watches your back heave as you speak, watches your hands drop from behind your head to your sides. He  _ gets it.  _ Phoenix must have been your partner, the light in the gray area of morality and you’ve been running in the dark ever since. You were a good detective, he could see it in the way you act and the work you’ve done. But you’re conflicted and he  _ gets it  _ because he had lost Steve once too. He needed to know what the redaction was, but he was sorry that was the story you had to tell. 

 

Which is why he doesn’t say anything when your shaking hands pry open a steel locker on the side of the bay. Your eyes pay no mind to the engravings a foot above your head, too wrapped up in hot emotion to take in all the details you normally would. He stands slowly, taking heavier steps than usual so as not to startle you. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he meets your glassy eyes just as you pull a large black coat from the locker.

 

“No, you’re not.” The smallest of forced smiles appears on your face. “But that’s okay.” 

 

He imagines Steve has seen the same smile on him many times, so he doesn’t say anything, just helps you pull his bulky coat over your sun bleached leather. 

  
  



	8. The Only Difference: Everything and Nothing at all

 

“Aren’t you going to ask?” 

 

“Ask what?” You look up from the case file on your lap at Bucky. He’s currently pacing the cabin of the plane. His shoulders are tense. 

 

“Hey, what’s going on?” You close the manila folder, emblazoned with Phoenicia's sigil, furrowing your brows and waiting a beat for him to speak.

 

He pauses his steps five feet away from the boarding door. “Aren’t you going to ask about  _ me.”  _

 

“I’ve read about your history and your skill set,” you brush him off as you stand, stretching one arm and then the other. “I figure that’s enough. For now at least.”

 

A shudder runs through him, and you sigh.

 

“Look, I’m not going to push you for anything. So try not to stress about it.” 

 

“No tit for tat?” Blue eyes meet your own as he turns around, a nervous lilt barely detectable in his low timbre. “I pushed you.”

 

“Yeah, you did,” you agree, but shrug the comment away, like it doesn’t bother you at all. “But our histories are very different. I may have been uncomfortable, but I won’t ask for anymore than you’re willing to give outside this case.” 

 

“Why not?” Those icy blues narrow. An involuntary roll of your eyes responds. You place a hand on his arm, closing the gap between the two of you. 

 

“It’s called partnership, Bucky. This case comes first and the more uncomfortable we are with each other, the slower it goes,” you explain gently, and the metal arm pulls away from the contact, a little less tense but still wary. “Plus, we don’t have a lot of time.” 

 

A beat of silence, a chill runs down your spine, and you pull the bulky coat tighter around you.

 

“Bucky?” a low hum in response. “How many people have you worked with like this?”

 

“One on one?” 

 

Your turn to hum.

 

His eyes track the ceiling as he sifts through years of work,“ Steve. Nat a few times.”

 

“Teams otherwise? Or alone?”

 

“Mostly alone, before this anyways.” 

 

A wide sweep of his shining arm takes in the jet and his new life.

 

“Well, I’m certainly a change from all that.” 

 

“No shit,” his crisp laughter echoes in the small space. “I wouldn’t classify you as normal though. You’re a detective, with one dead partner and another sick one, on a plane to Russia. You’re like us.”

 

“Maybe similar. I’ve lived outside of this though. You know, you’ve spent most of your life working alone. I spent a lot of mine surrounded by people. It’s a different light,” you say, gesturing vaguely in the air. “Not to be presumptuous, but maybe this is a change in company you  _ need. _ ”

 

You wish you could take a snapshot of the shocked eyes and raised eyebrow. 

 

“How do you figure, Detective ‘I take advice from hobos’ Bex?”

 

“I’m a real fucking person. And yeah, I ended up here, but I’m not a super spy or special agent by any stretch. I’ve got a twenty-first-century life. I have friends who’ve never fought aliens, outdated technology, and memories no one cares to hear about because they’re so  _ mundane _ . You  _ need _ the perspective. Shed a little light on what life is now.” 

 

“Steve knows what life is now. He’s been showing me.” 

 

You laugh again at the disgruntled yet good-humored response, your soft footfalls ceasing.

 

“Steve still sees it in comparisons to your previous life, and the whole superhero thing really changes it.” 

 

“That’s true, I suppose,” Bucky unwillingly agrees as he settles in the pilot seat again. “So what’s your unfiltered view of life, Raina? You don’t seem to have a lot of good to look back on.” 

 

“You see, that’s the problem with those files: they’re all black and white and tragedy.” You amend as you shake your head, taking your place in the copilot seat. “I had a life before law enforcement, and even one in between all of it.”

 

“Does it matter now that you’re here?” 

 

You shrug. You didn’t reminisce much, but you weren’t adverse to it. “Not as much as I thought it would.” 

 

You fiddle absentmindedly with the zipper of the coat you had lifted from a locker on the jet, “You know, when you’re living it, it seems like the most important thing ever, that the moment will stick with you forever. But that’s not true. It’s always the same rotation of maybe a dozen memories that seem relevant. You get that right?”

 

“Yeah,” he nods, “I do. Tell me about something irrelevant.”

 

“You are so bossy, Barnes.” 

 

“Yeah, well, you ought to get used to it.” 

 

“Never, “ you feign offense at the comment but can’t resist the smirk that creeps up your lips, “I’m too good at my job for that. I’ll tell you something irrelevant though. That’ll help you see.” 

 

This earns you a chuckle and a nod. 

 

“Try me.”

 

* * *

 

“The summer before college - not even academy, just college - there was a record-breaking heat wave. Every day, temps soared over a hundred degrees. It was miserable.”

 

“A hundred degrees?”

 

“Yeah, a combination of the southwest and global warming.”

 

Bucky thinks briefly of summers in Brooklyn, and all the days he spent in the freezing cold after that. “ I don’t think I’ve ever seen a day like that.”

 

“Count yourself lucky.” 

 

He didn’t, but lets you continue with a warm smile on your face.

 

“Anyways, I was set to go on a date to the movies with some nice guy who worked at the local swimming pool, and a few hours in the air conditioned dark seemed absolutely  _ perfect  _ to me. I was all dolled up and ready to go at seven pm sharp,” you say as you set up the scene, stealing a glance at him, expecting a glazed-over look only to find him listening intently. “My car was in the shop so he was going to pick me up - ” you can’t stifle a light laugh, “ - that car was such a piece of shit, but I loved it. A light blue Chevy truck, like in the movies.”

 

He takes note of your distant, yet content, expression before jolting you from the memory. “What happened to it?” 

 

You weren’t expecting a question.

 

“The truck? Oh, it got repaired that time. Eventually, the engine mount cracked though, and it just stopped being worth the effort to repair.” Bucky felt the statement resonant in his chest, an antique with a declining value. He almost didn’t notice you had picked up the story.

 

“I stopped waiting for him around seven thirty,” you continue, settled back in your seat now, clearly at ease. “He didn’t respond to my texts or call, so I figured he lost interest and ghosted.”

 

“Ghosted?”

 

“Yeah,” you trail off as you wave your hand around as if it would catch the right words out of thin air. “It’s when someone, specifically someone you’re interested in, just kinda disappears.” 

 

“How is this a good memory?” He takes a moment to appreciate the wicked grin spread across your face.

 

“Because the ice cream truck rolled through around seven thirty-five and I got to spend $20 on strawberry shortcakes and bomb pops instead of a shitty date.” 

 

He finds himself smiling in response. He remembered dates in the sticky summers and ice cream with Steve.

 

“See, Bucky? The difference between us is just about everything,” you conclude, and he feels his heart stutter. Your dismissal of his unspoken memories hurt, and his quiet rejection swirls around like the spin of your chair. “But sitting here it seems like nothing at all.” 

 

The words are a balm on the wound. The furrowed brow on your face is not.

  
  


* * *

 

The hours went by quicker than expected and soon Bucky had begun guiding the jet down through the thick clouds to prepare for it’s final descent. The snow capped landscape of Russia opened up beneath you like a book. It was  _ beautiful.  _ You had seen snow before, but this was unlike anything you had seen from the skies above Wyoming or the mountains of Colorado. Every ridge was unmarred, perfect, like crisp braille on parchment. No ski tracks, tourists, or herds of buffalo had disturbed so much as a single flake. The cold here was a deceiving smooth surface, glossing over any atrocities and constant in its bitterness. 

 

In the back of your mind a small alarm began beeping, telling you to be careful, that New York’s cold pricks had not prepared you for this. It would be easier to get caught off guard. It would take concentrated effort to not become numb, to fight the sort of frostbitten acceptance of bloodshed you can only assume Bucky knew. But right at this moment your mind falls blank. 

 

_ It’s beautiful.  _

 

The tap of Bucky’s calloused fingers, the lull of the quinjet engine, and the warmth of a good coat all collude to make a safe haven of the moment before landing. You inhale deeply, relishing in it. You’re moments from landing. Your partner’s face is focused, but relaxed. He’s so engrossed in the task at hand he doesn’t really have time to consider the fact he’s back on old, bloodied, stomping grounds. You suppose that’s why he likes flying so much. The sky’s a blank canvas. 

 

His broad shoulders tense within a second of touching down and you almost reach out in concern. Remembering his earlier reaction, you shoo the thought. Instead, you watch him stand as he stretches his one flesh arm across his chest, pushing it in further at the elbow with his metal palm until he hears the satisfying pop of the joint. He’s staring out the window at the empty tarmac. There’s a small hangar to the left and you can see the gleam of a sleek black car under its protection. Tony did not mess around. 

 

“Are you ready?” It’s your steady voice ringing as you grab your bags and wait for Bucky to turn from the frozen landscape beyond the cockpit windshield. He didn’t budge.

 

“No.” 

 

“Will you do it anyway?” 

 

A question. Because you remembered he didn’t like commands and as much as you wanted to snap and tell him to get it together because the clock’s ticking, you’re good at your job. And any detective worth their salt could tell that Bucky Barnes was not ready to be back here. Guilt creeps up and you don’t bother to squash it, how fucking  _ awful  _ it must be for him and he’s stuck with you. You who’ve never been here, who doesn’t know him and can’t begin to help him. His defeated glare back at you and the sharp turn of his heel raises your eyebrow. 

 

“You’re pushy,” he huffs as he shoulders his bag.

 

“I know,” you reply alongside the swift sound of the zipper on your coat and the one he had retrieved from his bag.

 

“Aren’t you going to say sorry?” he asks. There’s a strained lilt to his voice you can’t place.

 

“No.” 

 

Your self-assured smile shakes him from whatever trance he is in and he rolls his eyes before leading you out into the cold.

* * *

  
  


“This is nice,” you muse as you trace the seams of leather seats and idle along the sleek dash of the car Tony had arranged for the two of you. Past the dash lies seemingly endless snow broken only by distant mountains.

 

“What?” Bucky’s train of thought breaks. It had been half an hour since you had left the jet and you hadn’t said a word. He didn’t know if it was for a lack of words or to spare him conversation. The endless reel of faded images, sharp violence, and bleak landscapes had been spinning in his head. He’s grateful that you had taken to pouring over the case material. His head just wasn’t ready for it yet.

 

“The car,” you say as your pen twirls and taps the dash. “I’ve never been in something this nice.”

 

“There isn’t much Stark money can’t buy.” 

 

“You think he would buy me one?” 

 

Your tone is a playful kind of hopeful, and Bucky watches a grin spreads across your face at the idea.

 

“Don’t you have a squad car or something?” 

 

He’s comfortable with the shallow conversation, with keeping the focus on you, even more comfortable with the standoffish humor in your scoff and eyeroll. 

 

“Barnes you would not  _ believe  _ the thing they have me driving in Texas, it isn’t even that old, but it’s giving up the ghost already.” 

 

“Another one of those Chevys?” 

 

“Oh lord no, that truck was my favorite piece of machinery  _ ever,  _ I just didn’t have the money to keep it up. The one they’ve got me driving now is such a fucking mess, I didn’t even bring it to New York. I figure I’ll go back and get it someday, or will it to Joe, or something.”

 

“Are you not going back?” 

 

You cock an eyebrow at him. He can’t decide if it’s resignation, humor, or fear in your eyes. Maybe a stormy mix of the three.

 

“I’m not counting on it.” 

* * *

  
  


It took another hour to get to their destination. A top floor apartment in the east corridor of St. Petersburg.

 

“Stark set this up?” 

 

“It’s his version of a safe house.” 

 

“I used to live in a place like this.” 

 

“In Russia?” Bucky chuckles at his own joke, raising an eyebrow with a slight smile.

 

You respond with the same smile and eye roll. “Texas.” 

 

The two of you take a few minutes to unpack and orient yourselves. The apartment is all warm woods and big windows, which are bulletproof and tinted from the outside world, Bucky assures you.  There are two bedrooms, both featuring massive cozy beds, and a small living area crowded with plush chairs and blankets surrounding a small fireplace. The piece de resistance is an expensive espresso machine perched on a counter in the kitchen. 

 

It’s overwhelmingly familiar. Something Phoenix might have drawn in a daydream. The first fat drops of rain angle against the windows and it’s all at once  _ too much _ . The heartache so well subdued pitches and rolls and you think you’re going to be sick. 

 

“Bucky?”

 

“Hm?” He straightens, having been leaning against the frame of the window in the kitchen.

 

“I’ve got to get some sleep. I figure we’re good for tonight, yeah?” 

 

You’re worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. Enough had been done today by your standards, but you don’t know what his expectations are.

 

“Yeah. We’re set.”

 

The sky opens and the storm crackles outside, flooding in with the relief and weariness. 

 

You nod and smile weakly at him, who really truly felt like a partner now, and turn to pad towards your bedroom. Stopping at the threshold you rap one knuckle against the frame and call back to him. 

 

“Goodnight, Bucky.” 

 

He hasn’t moved from the living room, you can tell from the echo of his voice.

 

“Night, Raina.” 

 

He stays with his echo for hours. Long after you have passed out, and long after the storm has ceased.

 

* * *

 


	9. Dead Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The process of calculating one's current position by using a previously determined position.

“You are a man after my own heart, Bucky Barnes.” 

 

Bucky looks up at you, startled. He had just finished putting coffee on to brew. You’re dressed differently, in sweats and a dark gray shirt.  _ You’re so young.  _ It’s almost difficult to reconcile the woman he’s handing coffee to and Detective Raina Bex. Your voice brings his focus back. 

 

“I cannot tell you the last time someone made me a decent cup of coffee,” you sigh as you motion for the cream sitting next to him. “I take a little cream, for future reference.” 

 

A solid’s nights sleep had done wonders for your morale and seeing the former assassin making coffee had a genuine grin spreading across your cheeks.

 

“You’re tellin’ me I make better coffee than cops? I thought you guys were the reigning champs,” he comments dryly, a strange sense of pride swelling in his chest as he watches you take the first sip with your eyes closed. It wasn’t often someone acknowledged the small things.

 

“Mhm. Hardly champions; we have a nasty habit of leaving a pot to scorch. Hazard of the job.” 

 

It was a great cup of coffee, and whether or not it was Stark’s expensive blend or Bucky’s actual barista skills, you can’t tell. You don’t dare say a word to the sleepy-eyed man; he looks happy for once, and you’d hate to ruin it. You take a long draw of coffee and motion for the pot from across the counter. He pours a fresh cup for you with a bit of a grin.

 

“We have to corner someone,” a pour of cream elicits a puff of steam from your mug, “Isolate them. It would be smart to build an inroad, get into one of these games ourselves. The question is, who?”

 

“The team stateside emailed us some potentials last night, I printed them out,” Bucky says as he passes over a moderately sized stack of papers. Way to keep the mood light. “There’s some good bets. In fact, a lot of them are set to be at the same gala tonight - a mob sponsored event.”

 

“You think this is mob related?” 

 

“I don’t want to rule anything out.” 

 

“I agree. What time is this shindig?”

 

“Nine tonight, give or take half an hour.”

 

He’s leaned back against the counter, more relaxed than you’ve seen him. You take a glance at your watch.

 

“It’s only eight a.m.. Let’s take a few hours and that pot of coffee and pick our target.”

 

“Sounds good, partner,” he mimics a southern accent and jerks a thumb towards the small living room. 

 

There’s a fire started already, and immediately you feel drawn to the familiar, dry heat. You curl up on the sofa, tucking your feet into the cushion so your toes don’t freeze. Bucky is still in the kitchen a safe distance away, but you can see his eyes are far heavier than yours.

 

“How long have you been up, Barnes?” you ask, concerned. He shrugs as he tops off the coffees, draining the pot. 

 

“Not too long,” he assures, but for all his experience, no one can hide sleep deprivation.

 

“Liar.” 

 

He stifles a yawn in response, flipping the switches on the machine to start a new pot. 

 

“Nosy.”

 

“That’s Detective Nosy to you, sir.”

* * *

 

You haven’t been warm since you got here. At least, not until this moment. Your back is pressed against the arm of the sofa, legs bent to the side, snug against the back, with a calf pressed to Bucky’s metal arm. It was cold on your skin at first, but it had warmed in the past half hour. The addition of the fire made the whole scene quite cozy. If it weren’t for the files and photos passing back and forth you would easily drift into sleep. You could submerge yourself in the “almost” quality of the moment.

 

_ Almost home. Almost Phoenix. Almost the comfortable feeling you lost. _

 

But it isn’t and you bring yourself back to the present: bleary eyes glossing over a language you don’t recognize.

 

“Barnes, I can’t read this.” 

 

The brunette looks up, sweeping a lock of hair behind his ear. A soft smile parts his lips.

 

“I know. Took you a minute to notice.” 

 

You pass the paper back over with a huff, pulling yourself from the relaxed position.

 

“I thought I was supposed to be the exhausted one,” he says as he takes in the sleepy eyes as you re-adjust to lean against him. He fights the instinct to pull away, remembering your comment about being  _ comfortable  _ with each other. He knows you could turn on him, but trusts that you won’t. You were too dedicated to saving these women.

 

Nat has described you as a bull in a china shop, sometimes blinded by fear. Did she ever see you like this? You two seemed friendly, but if you had refused to work with her he doubted you were  _ comfortable  _ with each other.

 

“Oh my god, you’re so  _ warm _ ,” you can’t help but admit as you settle deeper into him, leaning against his back with your chin on his shoulder where metal met flesh. He flinches, not away, but noticeably.

 

“Sorry,” you mumble and adjust again to lean fully against the cold shoulder.

 

“S’okay.” 

 

Relief seeps into Bucky’s posture at the motion, and you wonder how long it’s been since he’s shared the warmth of another human.

 

“Read it to me.”

 

“What?” 

 

He is flabbergasted, and you laugh a little at his confusion, tapping the forgotten paper in his hand.  _ Russian, _ you think.

 

“Oh, sure.” 

 

He expects you to move back to your previous position across the sofa. He’s surprised when the flat of your palm meets the cool metal under his bicep and pushes upward, and looks at you, baffled. 

 

“I haven’t been warm since we we touched down, Barnes. Show some mercy.” 

 

A chuckle, subconscious, rumbles from his chest. “Alright, but try to make a move and I’ll kick your ass.” 

 

He lifts his arm around you, pleased when you tuck into him so quickly. Completely trusting.

 

“Duly noted.”

* * *

  
  


An hour passes and the papers are stacked neatly into seperate little piles surrounding the two of you. You zero in on the rap sheet in your hands, hunched over it as if protecting a secret.  _ Rodion.  _ There were still a few options left in the pile, but you know this is your mark. A little too slick, a little too conceited, and given his theft records for items which had never shown up on the market again, a little more interested in himself than the greater cause. A weak link likely to be eliminated in the near future if he was involved, but if you get to him first, he could be easily seduced or threatened. 

 

“Bucky,” You call out across the apartment, “I found the perfect guy.” 

 

He had been on the phone with Steve for a little over ten minutes, a debrief on a mission they had completed shortly beforehand. 

He nods and wraps up the phone call to meet you in the kitchen. 

 

“His name is Rodion.” You point at the file on the counter with your pinkie, so as not to disrupt the cup full of coffee grounds you’re pouring into a paper filter. Bucky opens the file to find a glossy headshot - not a mugshot, a legitimate headshot - that he had submitted to the Russian authorities for official use. His rap sheet is short, but the thinly veiled implications of mob involvement and smuggling are there. According to the research Owen sent over, he hasn’t so much has been seen with the old bosses in the past few years. 

 

Bucky looks up at you with knitted brows. He is by no means a dumb man, but he was never trained as a detective. He never had to  _ decide  _ on a mark, just had to go find them. HYDRA had never trusted him with the logistics of a mission, just the bare minimum of who, where, and how best to complete the kill.  _ Why _ was never even part of the equation. 

 

“He isn’t mob.” 

 

“I know. He’s clearly found greener pastures though. Take a look at his financial records. This man’s spending could rival Tony’s, but he wasn’t bringing in enough for a while,” you explain as you finish prepping the pot to brew and join Bucky at the counter, tapping at bank records. “Then, two years ago, he’s flush with the stuff. The initial deposits came as a set of three over four weeks. Two million, $300,000, and $700,000 respectively. Not measured deposits, they clearly correlate to different valued products.” The energy in your voice has upticked but the rough edge in your eyes still gleams with that stormy mix of fear and anger.

 

“Humans?”    
  


“I’m willing to bet on it. This is the type of guy who could easily convince a woman to leave with him. He’s a little too slick from what I can tell, and the kind of lifestyle he lives certainly isn’t supported by the theft charges they’ve got on him,” you concluded grimly, the pieces sliding smoothly into place. “Drugs and humans both sell at margins that could feasibly support the bottle service, caviar snorting, prostitute hoarding shit he’s into.”

 

Bucky flips through the remaining pages, nodding along. “Good enough for me. How do we get in with him?”

 

“Supply meets demand, and at this rate, he’s going to be digging deep to meet demand. He’s going to need another girl.” 

 

Bucky’s motions stop abruptly as he realizes what you’re getting at, and he looks up at you with a steady gaze.

 

“You’re the bait,” he sighs heavily. Judging by the lines carving their way into his forehead, Bucky does not like this at all.

 

“I’m the bait,” you confirm. The coffee machine beeps, signalling the brew is done. You get up and make your way over to it, the siren song of caffeine too strong to avoid. “That makes you my handler. But before any of that, we have to get invited to a game.” 

 

“You think Rodion is really going to invite us?” 

 

“If anyone can make him, it’s you. I figure he probably gets a cut of whoever he brings in. This undercover op stuff is more your wheelhouse.” 

 

You pour two steaming cups and add a dash of cream to each. Bucky is already scrawling across the floor plans of the casino in neat measured strokes.

 

“Thank you,” he says, taking the mug and drawing a long sip that had to have scorched his tongue yet he didn’t even flinch. “Do you have any undercover experience?”

 

“Minimal, I did most of it for a drug trafficking case. I was training for deeper waters when I got promoted to detective. Then Phoenix passed away and we were scrambling just to keep up.  It sort of fell to the wayside.” 

 

Life had been a whirlwind these past few years, that was for certain. Bucky nods along, marking exits and security measure on the maps. 

 

“Okay. I’ll run point.” 

 

You don’t miss the wary look and click of his jaw. 

 

“You okay?”

 

A low hum, as if debating saying anything at all, before, “are you sure you’re not  in over your head?”

 

His look is sharper than he intended, and he can tell he needs to back off from the look on your face. But the damage is already done, and you’ve gone on the defensive. 

 

“Do I even need to answer? Or have you already made up your mind?”

 

“Raina..” He stands now to meet you, the uncertainty and  _ sadness  _ flash like lightning in your eyes. It hits him all at once. You’re capable, smart, experienced, but your work flow halts at strange intervals. The smooth tumblers of a lock hesitating over grains of sand. He grasps your elbow lightly; you don’t pull away and your eyes hold steady.

 

“Raina, is this your first case since Phoenix?” 

 

There it is. The broken look. He’s expecting you to pull away but you hang your head and place a hand on his forearm. The two of you stand in silence as the rain continues. He doesn’t dare move. 

 

“Is it that obvious?” 

 

Your voice is little more than a whisper. 

 

“No.” 

 

Quieter than he intended, and quickly overshadowed by a huff of a hollow laugh.

 

“Are you lying to me, Barnes?” 

 

You move away to grab your coffee, taking a deep inhale in the process. How could he possibly know? Owen, Joe, not even Eaton had an inkling as far as you were aware.

 

“No,” he says. It sounds like a lie, and you look at him expectantly, only to find his expression far more gentle than before. “Honest, Raina. I’m a trained agent and you’ve been more open than most.” 

 

It had come as such a natural realization. The rapport had been easy, if not a little teasing, and he had the sinking feeling you hadn’t been this relaxed with someone in a while. You just nod slowly and reach back out to him, placing a steady hand on cool metal.

 

“How are you recovering?” 

 

“I’m not, I’m living with it. It’ll die when I do.” 

 

“Do you ever mourn?” 

 

“It’s subconscious at this point.” 

 

“The guilt is eating you alive, isn’t it?” A pointed look and a sharp tap on his arm. You can’t tell if this conversation is about you or him but you’re willing to place bets his face is a mirror of yours.

 

“Same as you, Barnes.” 

 

He drops his head in a slow nod, hair falling around his face. 

 

“Come on,” you pull yourself up out of the moment. “We’ve got to get ready for our date with Rodion.” 

 

* * *

  
  


Once you had laid out a game plan and notified the home team preparations were in full swing. 

 

**_T-minus three hours_ **

 

“Raina!” Joe’s cheer is clear as day through the coms Tony had rigged throughout the apartment. Owen’s laughter can be heard in the background and it brings a wide smile to your face. 

 

“Hi Joe. How are my favorite New Yorkers?” There’s a shifting on the other end as Joe passes over the phone to Owen.

 

“Feeling much better, thanks. How are you holding up? Is Agent Barnes being nice to you?” 

 

“I’m being plenty nice,” Bucky pipes up from the living room.

 

“He’s a good partner. I’ve no complaints yet,” you missed their laughs. “ What have you got for me?”

 

“Most of the intel, floor plans, and personnel files we have on this guy are with you two already. Joe’s scanning the last bits now and you can expect them within the hour.” 

 

“Your guy works quicker than that. We just got the last of it.” Bucky’s silent foot falls had him standing in the doorway before you could even look up. He’s holding a datapad. “I’ve got most of the plans worked up, so we can debrief on the way to the casino.”

 

Tony’s voice rings in, “Hi Frosty, Hi Raina. I heard about the casino. I know for certain our resident old man doesn’t have anything suitable and I’m doubting you had time to pack a pageant gown, Detective. I’m having some new duds delivered to the false address across the street. You can pick them up there in 30.”

 

“Thanks, Tony. I’ll head over.” 

 

“Be careful.” 

 

“We will be.” 

 

You peer out the window at the storm as you say your goodbyes and end the call. 


End file.
